


The Sleepless Wake

by AbandonedPie



Series: The Breathing Dead [2]
Category: Momma CQ - Fandom
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Insomnia, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Post-Emotions Fresh, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2018-10-17 21:23:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10602519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbandonedPie/pseuds/AbandonedPie
Summary: Fresh struggles to cope with his brother's death and the onslaught of emotions it gave rise to.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the sequel to The Endless Sleep. If you haven't yet, please read that first for a fuller understanding and appreciation of this work.
> 
> I made a couple of minor edits since posting this chapter on Tumblr.
> 
> Heads-up that I am a slow writer with no update schedule. Thank you for being patient!
> 
> 3/7/18 edit: I've made some more changes since finishing the extended edition of The Endless Sleep.
> 
> Content warnings can be found in the End Notes.

The first night after Geno’s revival, Fresh lay limp in his mother’s arms, staring at the shadows on his ceiling until exhaustion dragged him to sleep. His first nightmare jolted him awake and threw him into a panic. It took an hour for CQ to soothe him, for his sobbing and shaking to subside. Not daring to close his eye, he clung to her until morning.

The second night, she asked if he wanted her to stay in his room with him again. He didn’t want to be alone, but seeing the shadows under her eyes and worrying he might disrupt her sleep, Fresh assured her he would be fine. Before heading to her room, she held him close and asked him to go to her if he needed her. He tossed and turned in bed for a few hours. Sleep overcame him, only for another nightmare to wake him. He managed to keep quiet and eventually calm himself enough to creep into the living room; he put on a movie to distract himself, turning the volume down low so his mother wouldn’t hear.

The third night, he searched the web for ways to stop nightmares. Nothing helped. Tempted though he was to stay up all night, his exhaustion pushed him to keep trying to sleep, even as it took him longer and longer just to get into bed. He knew his dreams weren’t real, and it made no sense to be afraid of them, but he was, and that scared him even more.

After finding his brother’s dust, what seemed like a hundred sensations Fresh had never felt before crashed through him. He had broken down. It had felt like he was dying. These sensations, these emotions, hadn’t gone away. Anxiety had taken root inside him, and some things, like his nightmares, triggered another disabling flood of emotion. The only thing preventing him from breaking down with every smaller feeling was the pain medication he took for his injuries. It kept him drowsy, almost numb—or maybe he was simply sleep-deprived and in shock.

A couple times, Ink texted him around midnight, asking if Fresh was awake too. They spent hours talking about trivial things. It relaxed Fresh a little, at least until Ink asked how Geno was doing. Fresh sent him a brief update about Geno’s minimally conscious state before turning the conversation back to something that didn’t trigger his emotions. He never brought up his nightmares or anxiety. Neither of them mentioned Error at all.

CQ and Fresh hadn’t known how to tell Geno. Neither had wanted to, especially right after he started waking up. Miracle though his recovery was, their reunion had been more painful than happy.

They had stepped into his room to find his head turned toward the door, gaze distant like always. Then his eyelight focused on them, and Geno smiled, his face lighting up. Fresh’s soul leapt and clenched all at once. He doubted they would ever see that smile again. Even as he and CQ approached his bed, Geno’s smile faded. His eye looked Fresh up and down. He must’ve been surprised by how much his brother had grown.

CQ hugged Geno, and his arms rose, quivering, to hug her back.

“Geno,” said CQ. “How are you?”

“Good.”

His voice sounded hoarse from lack of use. It felt strange to hear it at all after six years of silence. Fresh hadn’t bothered talking to him since before the coma, and now that he would hear, Fresh didn’t know what to say.

“Hey bro.”

Geno and CQ let each other go, and Geno’s eye fixed on the bandages around Fresh’s head. Eyelight shrinking, Geno tensed.

“F-Fresh…?”

Fresh faked a grin. “Brah, don’t worry ’bout dis. Looks worse than it is!”

First Ink, and now Geno. Fresh wasn’t sure why he had lied to both of them. The cracks in his face had started healing, but he would never see out of his left eye again. Next to everything else he had lost, this didn’t matter much to him. Geno got by fine with one eye. So could Fresh. Besides, these injuries were the last thing Error had given him: just the sort of parting gift Fresh deserved.

Geno squeezed his sheets. “H-how—”

Fresh’s grin faltered, but only for a second. He couldn’t talk about that. Just thinking about it made his anxiety grow into nausea, but he must not let Geno notice.

“I messed up. My bad. But yo, doesn’t hurt much at all! Promise!” Not his injuries, anyway. CQ and Geno frowned at him.

He wanted to protect Geno from the truth, for him to be happy, even if it meant living in ignorance. Why? Fresh’s breathing quickened.

“C’mon broski, show me more of dat smile.”

He pressed a finger to Geno’s cheekbone and tried to push the corner of his mouth up. Geno’s mouth twitched into a smile.

“There ya go!” He rubbed Geno’s head as though to ruffle his nonexistent hair. “Dat’s a much radder look on ya.”

He withdrew his hand, and Geno’s eye drifted over their shoulders.

“Error…?”

Fresh froze, his grin stiffening. He had braced himself for Geno to ask, but he couldn’t bear to destroy his brother’s smile, possibly forever. It seemed CQ couldn’t either.

“He…couldn’t be here.”

Pain surged up within Fresh. All the air had left the room. His head reeled. Gasping for air, legs shaking, he clutched his head and chest and sank to the floor. His mother drew closer. She and Geno called out his name, but he barely heard them. Tears welled in his eyes. He didn’t understand what was happening to him, what he was supposed to do. It hurt. It hurt so much.

CQ knelt in front of him, her gaze steady.

“Breathe.”

He felt faint.

“Close your eyes. Take deep breaths.”

He tried to focus. Right now, nothing else mattered. Each minute his breaths grew deeper, longer, and steadier. CQ held him in her arms for what felt like an hour. Once Fresh finally regained enough control to stop crying, CQ helped him stand back up. Geno reached for him and tried to talk, but he couldn’t get the words out. Rubbing his eye, Fresh looked away.

“D-don’t. I’m… F-forget it, let’s t-talk about s-s-somethin’ else.”

It took a minute of insistence before Geno gave in.

During their visit, Geno seemed to have difficulty comprehending some of their words. A few times, he slipped into an unresponsive state like before he woke. The doctor had explained that his awareness of his surroundings would vary. Even knowing this, that Geno wasn’t reverting to a vegetative state, a queasy feeling rose up inside Fresh every time Geno’s face went blank. Fresh wanted him to get better as fast as possible. Then again, if Geno stayed this way, maybe he’d never fully comprehend the reason for Error’s absence. Maybe he wouldn’t have to feel the pain that Fresh did.

Before their next visit, CQ decided they couldn’t keep the truth from him any longer. She walked in, and Geno glanced past her at Fresh, who hung back by the door.

“Error?” said Geno.

CQ held his hand and spoke in a low voice. Fresh stared at the floor, unable to bring himself to watch Geno’s reaction. Silence followed.

Maybe he hadn’t understood. Please let him not have understood.

A small, shuddering breath broke the silence. As if on instinct, Fresh looked up.

He would never forget how wide Geno’s eye had grown, how much he had shaken, how so many tears had drenched his face.

Fresh would never forget that this was his fault.

Since then, Geno hadn’t met their eyes or spoken more than a few words. His unresponsive moments seemed longer and more frequent. Fresh got the feeling that Geno wanted them to stop visiting. He understood that; aside from the nights Ink texted him, Fresh preferred being left alone to talking. Whenever CQ tried to spend time with him, to talk about his emotions or what came next, he found an excuse to get away, often leaving to skate around the block. Geno, however, didn’t have the option of running away.

Yet he was well enough to attend the funeral, and the wake before that. The whole time, he sat motionless in his wheelchair, eye glazed over—except for the time Fresh caught a glimpse of him clutching his scarf and fighting back tears.

The wake turned into the longest evening of Fresh’s life. CQ, Com and Asy each spoke to him, but like wind miles over a sinking stone, their words didn’t reach him. He focused all his energy on smothering his emotions. It wasn’t enough. While he stayed at least five feet from the urn containing Error’s dust, his gaze lingered on it a few seconds too long; his focus snapped and he sobbed in front of everyone. Ink guided him out of the room. They sat on the floor against a wall, and Fresh cried into Ink’s shoulder, only for Ink to cry with him.

After everyone left and CQ returned Geno to the hospital, she went to bed, and Fresh sat in his room. He texted Ink and waited for a reply, but none came. He lay down, closed his eye, and waited for sleep, but every time he started to drift off, the fear shook him awake. Too tired to cry anymore, he stared at the window, waiting for morning. Slowly, too slowly, it came. Then came the funeral.

Just like the wake, Fresh hated it. The hushed voices, the condolences from people who had barely known Error, the tears from those who had… It was bad enough without having to wear a suit, without everyone dressed in black. Black like Error used to wear so often. Black like his skull. Everywhere Fresh looked, he saw black. Except the sky: it was clear, as blue as the streaks down Error’s face.

For the first time, Fresh truly grasped why Error used to destroy things. No object was responsible for the burning pain in his chest, but he couldn’t destroy any of the real problems. He couldn’t rip the pain itself out, or his exhaustion, and he couldn’t break his nightmares. He couldn’t shatter Geno’s sickness, or crush his past self’s lack of emotions, or even tear out his voice to stop him from giving Error that final push to end his life. Fresh couldn’t destroy himself. Not without devastating his family. Why they cared about him, he didn’t understand, but even if they hadn’t, Fresh didn’t want to die. He wanted to destroy all this pain, but that wasn’t an option. If he destroyed something—anything—it might let out some of the pain building up inside him. But not here, not now.

So he stifled the pain, and waited for the funeral to end.

As was customary, his mother spread Error’s dust on his favorite thing, or rather, the best representation of it they had: a photograph of him with his mother, his brothers, Asy, Com, and Ink. Fresh didn’t belong in the photograph, but it was too late to ask CQ to find one without him in it. She framed it and placed it in a thin black case. After the funeral, she drove Fresh and Geno to the hospital. CQ lifted Geno into his wheelchair and brought him inside. Fresh waited in the car, holding the case in his lap, and he didn’t raise his head until the car pulled up in front of their house.

They set the photograph between the flowers on the table they had placed in a corner of the living room. The thought of seeing it every day disturbed Fresh, almost as much as staying in a bedroom two doors down from where he had found his brother’s dust. It hurt to have that dust on display in the living room. CQ had said she wanted to keep him close, that she believed Error would have wanted to be with his family, though she did ask how Fresh felt about this. He had agreed to give it a try, but now he questioned his decision.

CQ tore her gaze from the picture, turning to him. “Fresh…”

“Gotta go change.” He turned and headed to his room.

Inside, Fresh closed his door and pressed his back against it. His hands clenched. For so long, he had wondered what it was like to feel. Now that he knew, he wished he could go back. Back to before all he knew was pain. Back to when Error was alive. Fresh would tell him he was right, that Geno would get better, to never give up, no matter what. Fresh would be the brother he should have been, the brother that Error deserved.

Or not. If he truly went back, losing his emotions, he wouldn’t care about being a good brother. Even now that he understood, he wouldn’t be able to be there for Error. Not the way he needed. He’d fail Error all over again.

Fresh tore off his jacket and tie and threw them to the floor. He wrenched off his shoes and flung them across the room. They hit the wall with two thumps. He rummaged through his dresser, yanking out a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. His door opened, but he didn’t even look, instead tossing the clothes onto his bed and shutting the drawers.

“Go away!”

“Fresh—”

“Leave me ALONE!” He strode over and slammed the door in his mother’s face.

The pain burned hotter inside him. He seized his lava lamp and hurled it into the wall. The lamp cracked, but not enough for the liquid inside to spill out.

Fresh clutched his bandages. He didn’t need them anymore; he only wore them to hide his shame, the cracks and bruises Error had given him during their last moments together. His fingers tightened over his left eye. It twinged, and he winced. His hands trembled. He walked over and slumped onto his bed. The urge to destroy everything in sight faded, but the pain had gotten worse.

He didn’t know what to do. There was nothing he could do.

Except…maybe…?

The pain in his eye gave him an idea. He sat up, grabbed his pain meds from his nightstand, and glanced at the clock. It was about time for him to take his meds anyway. The two pills he had to take every four hours weren’t enough to help him sleep, but maybe, if he took a little extra…? He needed sleep. More meds should overpower his fear of nightmares. Perhaps this wasn’t the best solution, but he was desperate. He wasn’t going to be stupid about it. He wouldn’t overdose.

Just…just a bit extra. Just this once. He’d look for another way after he got some sleep.

Fresh poured three pills into his palm and popped them into his mouth. He swallowed, coughed, and reminded himself to get water next time. Then he set aside the bottle of meds and changed into his T-shirt and sweatpants. By the time he lay back in bed and closed his eye, his head and chest felt light and warm. His thoughts drifted away.

Hours later, CQ woke him for supper. He kept his eye shut, clinging to his dream, but it trickled from his memory. All he managed to hold on to was an image of a storm, and Error hugging him in the rain. He tried to fall asleep again, hoping to continue the dream, but while his body still ached with exhaustion, his mind raced, more awake than it had been all week.

Fresh dragged himself out of bed, put on his glasses and a hat, and shuffled to his door. His mother stood waiting on the other side. He looked away, but he felt her gaze. Then it hit him. His behavior had been mirroring Error’s. He might as well have barricaded himself in his room.

They ate supper in silence until Fresh couldn’t take it anymore.

“I’m sorry.”

CQ looked at him, but he kept his head down. “…It’s okay. Just… You can talk to me, Fresh. You’re not alone.”

He picked at his food. She had enough problems without helping him deal with his.

That night, he fell asleep rather easily. Darkness threatened to swallow him up. He stumbled around, searching for a way out. Screams rang through the darkness: Error’s screams. They echoed louder and louder as Fresh ran, screaming back, wind whipping his face. He tripped and plummeted through the darkness.

The screams stopped, and Fresh crashed into the ground. Weakly, he raised his head. Everything was red. The dirt, the wall of flames blazing and roaring around him—everything except the web of blue strings entangling a limp and broken figure. Soaked in blood, trembling, Error dangled there. Blood poured from his eye sockets and mouth, from several gashes and holes throughout his body. It dripped into the pool of blood beneath him. Creatures with horns and claws surrounded him, their rows of needle-like teeth bared.

Fresh screamed. The demons turned their black eyes to him. Choking with fear, he scrambled backwards. Then the demons were on top of him, the stench of blood and rot filling him as they breathed sweaty steam over his face and down his neck.

Fresh’s eye shot open. Sweat drenched his bandages, and his bones quivered. The screams, the blood, and the demons seared themselves into his mind.

He cried into his pillow until the sun rose and light spilled in through his window.

* * *

 

Fresh left his room early, hoping to finish breakfast before his mother got up. He looked down the hall, and not seeing light through the crack under her door, his gaze drifted to Error’s. He turned away and ran his fingers behind his glasses.

He had to get out of this house.

The kitchen light was on, and CQ stood by the stove, flipping pancakes. She glanced over and gave Fresh her usual strained smile.

“Good morning.”

He stared at his feet. “Mornin’.”

“Hungry? I thought I’d make us something. There are a few pancakes ready.”

Fresh searched for the best way to ask.

“Ma?”

“Yes?”

“Can I spend da day at Aunt Com’s? I wanna spend some time with Ink.”

“Oh.” She hesitated. “Sure. If they’re okay with it.”

“An’ can I stay da night there, if she gives da okay?”

There was silence.

“Of course.”

Fresh walked over to grab some pancakes. “Thanks.”

After breakfast, CQ called, and Com agreed to let Fresh stay the day and night. He got ready, making sure he had everything he needed in his pack’s pocket dimension before he skated over to Com’s house. Ink opened the door before Fresh reached it.

“Hi Fresh! I’m glad you could visit!”

With shadows under his eyes, he looked almost as tired as Fresh felt. Fresh clapped him on the shoulder and headed in.

“Glad, ta be here, brah.” He faltered over the word “glad.” He still didn’t understand what it meant. Com stepped over, and Fresh smiled at her. “Thanks for havin’ me on such short notice. An’ so early. I jus’ all up got da urge ta visit. Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Let me know if you need anything.”

She eyed him with concern. Fresh nodded, and Ink followed him upstairs to the guest room. He propped his skateboard against the wall.

“Hey,” said Ink. “How’s your eye?”

Fresh glanced at him. Ink smiled, but like his mother, his eyes showed his worry. Slowly, Fresh sat on the edge of the bed and pulled his hat off. He fiddled with it for a moment.

“Sorry.” It seemed all he did lately was apologize.

“For what?”

“I…lied ta ya. ’Bout dis.” He gestured to his face. “It’s worse than it looks. Da doc said I’ll never see outta dis eye again.”

“What…?”

“But I don’t care. For realsies. I dunno why I didn’t tell ya. I guess I jus’ didn’t want ya ta get mad at—”

The air itself seemed to tense. Fresh’s fingers tightened around his hat, and he stuffed it back on. Hesitating, Ink sat beside him.

“I wouldn’t have gotten mad.”

He said that now. It was hard to be mad at someone who had taken their own life—hard, but not impossible. Sometimes Fresh felt angry at Error for giving up, for leaving them behind like this, but it only made him angrier at himself. He hated feeling. He hated all the emotions he had felt since opening his brother’s door, but anger was one of the worst, if only because he knew Error had felt it so often, and mostly toward Fresh. He couldn’t imagine what that had been like. How did people live with all these emotions? Surely they wouldn’t last forever.

Thinking about Error made them worse. Fresh smiled at Ink.

“So whatcha been up to, Inky? Paint any radical new pictures?”

“Oh… No. I’ve had a bit of art block.” Ink looked at the floor.

“Yo, ya wanna go skate with me? Maybe some ‘fresh’ air will get da creative juices flowin’.”

Ink smiled. “Good idea.”

Fresh let him borrow his skateboard, and outside, he rolled alongside Ink in his Heelys. They circled the block a few times, chatting a bit about games, movies, books, and other things that used to matter. For the most part, though, they didn’t say a word. It was almost nice. Skating loops around Ink, watching gray clouds drift in and cover some of the too-blue sky, Fresh let the breeze carry his heavier thoughts away.

Ink’s presence felt different than CQ’s and Geno’s. Whereas his mother exuded grief and worry despite her best efforts to appear strong for him, and Geno was too far lost in his own pain and condition to really interact with his family, Ink struck a perfect balance. He was suffering, but it hadn’t consumed him. He tried to stay strong, but not to help himself or Fresh move on. Rather than fight the pain or give in to it, he was struggling to ignore it. Just like Fresh.

Most of the time, it hurt too much to ignore, but Fresh didn’t know how to fight it. He had too little experience with this kind of pain. He still didn’t understand it. He was too weak to beat it himself, and too scared to accept help. If his mother had so much trouble fighting her own pain, she’d only hurt herself more trying to take on his. He feared that no one could help him.

Time healed all wounds, right? If Fresh waited long enough, the pain should let him go. In the meantime, he’d hold on to moments like these, the closest he could come to forgetting. Passing time with Ink, he almost stopped feeling. Later on, he’d hate himself even more for wishing to be that soulless freak again, but for now, he didn’t care to think about it.

Fresh and Ink returned to the house and watched a movie before Com called them to the table for lunch. They sat down in front of the two plates of tuna sandwiches and apple slices.

“Radtastic! Thanks, Aunt Com!”

She handed them each a glass, and Ink started talking about the movie. Turning his attention to Ink, Fresh took a sip from his glass and gagged. The taste and scent of cherry Kool-Aid hit him like a punch in the face. Pain and fear shot through him, and the glass slipped from his hand. Kool-Aid spilled over him. The glass shattered on the floor. Flinching, Fresh threw his arms in front of his face.

“Fresh? What—?”

He had to get away. He leapt to his feet and slipped on the Kool-Aid. Ink caught him, and Fresh steadied himself before pushing Ink’s hands off and striding out.

In the guest room, he wrenched off his clothes and changed into the shirt and pants he had brought for the next morning. Only after stuffing his Kool-Aid stained clothes into his pack did he allow himself to breathe through his nose hole again, and his breaths still came quick and ragged. He dropped to his knees beside the bed, leaned against it, pulled off his glasses, and clutched his face. There was a knock, and the door opened.

“Fresh.”

“I-I’m…I’m f-fine.”

“No you’re not!” said Ink. “Take deep breaths.”

Fresh forced himself to slow his breathing. Ink stepped over and sat next to him. After a minute, Fresh felt a little calmer, but fear still quivered inside him.

“Better?” asked Ink.

Fresh lowered his hands and put his glasses back on. “Yeah.”

“What was that?”

“…I dunno.” He refused to dwell on it.

“Well…” Ink glanced away. “Do you want to…come back down and eat?”

“No. You go on. I’m not hungry.”

He stared at the floor, waiting, but Ink didn’t move. Fresh looked at him. Ink gazed back, eyes wide and brimming with pain.

Again. Fresh had done it again. Without realizing it, he kept acting like Error had—throwing things, shutting himself in his room, and now refusing to eat. It must’ve scared his mother and Ink. It terrified Fresh.

“All right. A little. I’m a little hungry. Just, no Kool-Aid, ya hear me?”

Ink nodded and rose. “I’ll make sure Mom’s cleaned it up.”

He hurried out, and Fresh waited another minute before following.

* * *

 

Rain pattered against the window. Fresh sat huddled under a blanket on the guest bed, trying to read a book. His eye unfocused and passed over the same sentences again and again. Ink sat at the other end of the bed, staring at a blank page of his sketchbook as though his pen might spring out of his hand and draw something for him.

The rain reminded Fresh of his dream of Error in the storm, although in the dream, the rain had come down much harder. There had been howling wind and thunder. Somehow, it comforted him more than the rain outside. He wanted to go back to that dream. Back to Error.

Blood dripped in the back of his mind, and he shook his head. He couldn’t just go to sleep and dream whatever he wanted. He had only dreamed of that storm after taking extra pills. Even if he were to do so again, he probably wouldn’t have another dream like that, and certainly not the same one.

But what if he did? His meds had helped him once, and they might help again.

Fresh shut the book, and Ink blinked as though coming out of a trance. Fresh closed his eye. He had promised himself to only do it once. Taking more medicine than prescribed was stupid and dangerous.

Then again, so was depriving himself of sleep. He had decided to look for another way once he had gotten that sleep. No excuses. He had to make an effort. Pills weren’t the answer.

Fresh pulled out his phone and searched online for ways to help him sleep. Regular exercise? He already got that. Relaxation techniques? These required practice to become effective. He needed a quicker fix. Certain teas and foods might help, but were they strong enough to overpower his fear? He’d have to give them a try. He headed to the kitchen and looked to see what they had.

After drinking a cup of tea with honey, he asked Ink to leave the guest room so he could take a nap.

“Oh! Okay. I’ll wake you for supper, then?”

Fresh needed sleep more than food, but he nodded. Ink left, and Fresh turned out the light, set his hat and glasses aside, and burrowed under the blanket. He closed his eye and tried to clear his mind. The minutes dragged by. The patter of rain washed away his tension.

Warmth enfolded his body, and images drifted through his mind. Somewhere, rain tapped against the ground, dripped into puddles…thick, red drops, sliding down red bone—

Fresh’s body jerked, and his eye shot open. Fear and tension gnawed at him once more. He clutched the blanket and curled up.

He wanted to scream so loud it blocked out the rain, to cry until there was nothing left inside him. He just wanted some damn sleep.

The rain drummed harder against the window.

* * *

 

At midnight, Fresh dragged himself out of bed and crept downstairs. He opened the front door and watched the rain pouring down through the darkness. Wind flicked raindrops into his face. As if on their own, his legs carried him outside, and he closed the door behind him.

The rain soaked his pajamas and bandages within seconds. He stood at the side of the road, waiting, not even knowing what for. Rainwater trickled down his bones, and he blinked as it got in his eye socket.

What was he doing out here? It had just been a dream—a stupid dream that could never come true. Error wasn’t going to step out from the shadows and hug him. Fresh knew that, and yet he waited, waited for nothing.

The door opened behind him. Ink’s voice called out over the rain.

“Fresh! What are you doing? Come back inside!”

Fresh closed his eye. He willed the rain to wash away his fear. Footsteps splashed toward him, and a hand touched his shoulder. Fresh half dared to imagine Error beside him.

“Come on,” said Ink.

Fresh allowed Ink to steer him back inside. Com stood at the door, and after they came through, she closed it, slightly deadening the sound of rain. Water dripped from Fresh and Ink, forming puddles at their bare feet.

“Why did you…” said Com.

“Sorry,” Fresh mumbled.

Com frowned, but she didn’t seem angry. Just worried. She brought them towels, and after they dried themselves off and cleaned up the puddles, they went to their rooms and changed.

Sitting on the guest bed, Fresh tugged at the sleeve of his spare pajamas, his eye unfocused. A small knock didn’t rouse him. The door opened.

“Mind if I stay in here for a bit?”

Fresh shrugged. Ink closed the door and sat next to him. He expected Ink to question him, or to try striking up a conversation like the ones they’d had over texts, but Ink said nothing. Something about his silence relaxed Fresh. They sat together for at least ten minutes before a question drifted from Fresh’s mouth.

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

Ink looked at him for a moment, and then lowered his eyes.

“I don’t know. I believe some part of us lives on after death, but maybe not as ghosts. It’s possible, though.”

“So, you believe in an afterlife?”

“Yeah. Death can’t be the end.”

Fresh hugged his knees to his chest.

“What about…heaven an’ hell?”

Ink stared at him. Fresh glanced at his hat and glasses on the nightstand, wanting to put them on to hide his face, but he couldn’t move.

“I think there’s some sort of heaven,” said Ink.

Fresh buried his face in his knees.

“Do ya think…he’s in hell?”

Silence answered him. Fresh started to tremble.

“Suicide’s a sin. Right? Is he being punished?”

“No.” Ink’s voice broke. “No, he’s not.”

“Did he suffer, all those years, and kill himself ta make it stop, only to…to have to suffer more, f-forever?”

“No! He didn’t do anything to deserve that! He just… He’s happy now. He’s in heaven.”

Fresh tried to believe that.

“I saw him. They’re hurting him.” Saying it out loud, it sounded ridiculous, but he couldn’t shake the feeling.

“What?”

“I dreamed it… B-but, it didn’t feel like a dream.”

Ink grasped his shoulder. “It wasn’t real.”

“How do you know?”

“He can’t be in hell! He just can’t!”

Ink released him, and Fresh raised his head. Ink had turned away and seemed to be rubbing tears from his eyes. Guilt sank through Fresh. He shouldn’t have brought it up.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Ink drew closer and hugged him. Fresh squeezed him back, too tired to say anything more. He sat listening to the rain until Ink’s grip slackened and he went limp. Ink had fallen asleep against him. A new feeling burned in Fresh, and he slowly realized it was envy.

This had gotten too bad. He had to sleep. He glanced at the nightstand again, and his eye locked on to his bottle of pills. Right or wrong, it didn’t matter: they _were_ the answer, or at least, the only one he could find. Fresh made to grab the bottle, but it sat out of his reach. He didn’t dare move Ink and risk waking him. He needed the sleep too.

Fresh shut his eye and tried to join Ink, but he was far too tense and uncomfortable to even space out. How? How had Ink fallen asleep so easily? Fresh’s head ached. His eye twinged. He needed those pills, and not just for sleep. Hating himself, he eased Ink off and laid him down on the bed. Ink stirred, his eyes opening. Several un-fresh words flew through Fresh’s mind.

Still, Ink could get back to sleep without as much trouble as him. Fresh grabbed his bottle of meds and poured a few pills into his palm.

“Fresh?” Ink sat up, frowning. “That seems like a lot…”

Shame squirmed inside him. “Just as much as I need.”

“But… Ah! Wait!”

Fresh popped the pills into his mouth. He opened the water bottle he had brought along and took a gulp to help the pills go down. Ink stared at him, eyes full of worry. Fresh was getting sick of seeing worry in everyone’s faces.

“It’s fine, Ink. We should get ta sleep.”

“Are you taking more than you’re supposed to?”

Fresh set aside the bottles of meds and water.

“You shouldn’t—”

“I already took ’em,” said Fresh. “It’s too late.” _It’s always too late._

He slid off the bed and tried to pull the blanket back, but Ink still sat on it.

“Fresh. Don’t do that again. Please.”

“…I… I need ’em ta sleep.”

“No you don’t.”

“Nothin’ else works. I tried.” Did he try hard enough? He was too tired to search for another way. Pills were…easy. Simple. They felt like one of the only simple things left in his life.

Ink grabbed Fresh’s hand. They looked each other in the eye.

“We’ll figure something out,” said Ink. “Just promise you won’t do this again.”

Fresh looked away. “Don’t worry. I won’t take too much at once.”

“How much is too much?”

“C’mon, Inky, I’m tired. Let’s—”

“I want you to promise! Promise you won’t take more than your doctor told you to!”

Fresh fidgeted.

“…Fine. Then you promise not ta tell anyone ’bout dis.”

Faltering, Ink withdrew his hand. Fresh watched him, waiting. Ink gave a small nod.

“I promise.”

“It’s a deal, den. Can we sleep now?”

“Yeah. Of course.” Ink got to his feet. “…Goodnight.”

“G’night.”

Ink left, and Fresh settled into bed. He listened to the wind and rain and thought of his storm dream. A warm, fuzzy feeling swept over him, and he fell asleep within minutes. The next morning, he hardly remembered dreaming at all, but he felt more vitalized than he had all week. Taking extra pills was worth the risk.

Then he recalled his promise. Even pills weren’t simple anymore.

Before Fresh headed home, Ink and Com joined him at the door.

“It was nice having you, Fresh,” said Com.

“Yeah. Talk to you later!” said Ink.

A dark sort of anger welled up inside Fresh. He didn’t look at Ink.

“Later, Aunt Com.”

He stepped out and took off on his skateboard, ignoring the drizzle and trying to ignore these feelings. It was strange. Until he had started feeling them, he never realized how complex and nuanced emotions were. They weren’t just cookie cutters: one for anger, one for sadness, one for fear. They came in layers and shades. They blended together, making it all the more difficult to recognize and understand them. Take fear; it could come in crashing waves that threatened to drown him, like the fear during and after his nightmares. It could come as a steady flood in a locked room, like the fear of his situation getting worse and worse, mixed with the desperate hope that the water would stop and drain away, or that someone would unlock the door before it was too late. And it could come as a sudden rainstorm during a picnic, like this fear of losing his only friend because he didn’t have an umbrella to shield himself from these stupid emotions he hadn’t seen coming and couldn’t control.

Ink was only thinking of Fresh’s health, but he didn’t understand that Fresh needed the extra pills. He wasn’t going to overdose. He would’ve been fine—but Ink had taken advantage of Fresh’s exhaustion, preventing him from going to bed until he promised to give up the only solution to his insomnia. Fresh ached with anger just thinking about Ink. The idea of spending time with him made Fresh’s hands curl. But then, how could he escape from the pain? Skating around by himself wasn’t the same. Neither was talking with his mother or brother.

Couldn’t he have just one good thing in his life?

He made it home, and five steps inside, CQ appeared.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Mornin’, Ma.” He headed upstairs. She followed him.

“Did you have fun yesterday?”

“Sure.”

“Good. Well, there’s—”

“Mom, I jus’ got back. Gimme a minute—”

“Stop running.” CQ’s voice hardened, and Fresh paused. “There’s something we need to talk about.”

He felt a prickle of unease, like he was in trouble. Did she know what he had done? She couldn’t, unless… Did Ink break his promise not to tell anyone? Fresh had to get away and hide.

“Can’t it wait?” He strode into his room, swinging the door shut behind him as CQ called out:

“It’s about Geno.”

Fresh froze, and his skateboard slipped from his hand. His fear swelled into panic.

It couldn’t be—why hadn’t she called, or told him the moment he got back? Fresh fumbled with the doorknob and opened the door.

“Is he okay? What happened? Did he—”

CQ raised her hands. “No, Fresh, he’s fine! It’s not like that.”

His panic died down, but his anxiety got worse. Since when had he cared so much about Geno? This, more than anything else, was what Error had expected of him: to love their brother. And now Fresh did. Too late.

“Come on. Let’s sit down.” CQ gestured into his room.

Shaking, Fresh stepped back to let her in, and they sat on the edge of his bed.

“I spoke with Geno’s doctor,” said CQ. “Now that he’s minimally conscious, we have some new options. We can move him to another facility, or we can bring him home and take care of him ourselves.”

“He can…come home?”

Fresh should have felt happy, but for him to get one brother back so soon after losing the other… It felt like Error was being replaced. He’d rather have Error back, even if it meant Geno had to stay in the hospital. Did that mean Fresh cared more about Error? No… He was just used to not having Geno around, and a life mattered more than having family closer. Besides, the way Geno was now, it didn’t make much difference where he was.

Fresh looked down. “Does he even want to?”

“Of course he does. He told me so himself.”

“Can’t argue with dat.”

“You don’t want him to come home?”

Fresh shrugged. “Won’t make much difference.”

CQ hesitated, and then put her arm around Fresh.

“Give him time.”

Fresh gripped his knees. He wanted to ask, how much time? How much longer did they have to wait? When would it stop hurting? But deep down, he feared he knew the answer.

It would never stop.

Wasn’t that what Error had believed? If he had waited just one more day, he would’ve seen he was wrong. That’s why Fresh couldn’t give up. He just had to hold on until things got better. Even if it took another six years.

…How had Error lasted that long?

* * *

 

Over the next few days, while the final arrangements were being made for Geno to come home, Fresh’s exhaustion beat him into submission. Fear still kept him up at night, but throughout the day, when his guard dropped—watching movies, riding in the car, eating at the table—sleep crept up on him. His consciousness slipped even more than Geno’s. Once, he almost fell asleep climbing the stairs.

CQ began fretting even worse and tried to talk to him every time she saw him. It annoyed him even more than the dozen or so texts Ink sent him every day, suggesting ways to help him sleep, short-term methods he had already tried and long-term habits he had already adopted. Fresh didn’t know why he bothered checking his texts at all. Maybe he was hoping for an apology, but one text stung him into turning his phone off for good:

_If nothing’s working, you should ask your mom or doctor for help._

Fresh knew Ink was right, and he had told himself the same thing. He needed help to get out of this mess. Part of him wanted to ask for it, but another part held him back. He didn’t understand what this feeling was. It wasn’t fear of showing weakness. He just…had to get through this by himself.

He was actually getting some sleep, but not enough, and now he got nightmares during the day. CQ noticed him jerk awake a few times. Other times, he woke himself before any dream began.

Fresh opened his eye and lifted his head out of his plate. He wiped the food off his face and glasses. CQ sighed.

“Am I going to have to tell Geno that you’re not getting sleep and you won’t accept help?”

It took Fresh a few seconds to comprehend her words.

“Wha? No, Ma, don’t drag him inta dis. He’ll jus’ worry—”

“ _I’m_ worried, Fresh. With good reason.”

He dropped his glasses and leaned out of his chair to pick them up.

“Look at yourself. You can’t function like this. I’m going to set up an appointment with your doctor.”

Fresh sat up so fast he banged his head against the table edge and dropped his glasses again. “Ow! No! Mom, I’ll be fine!”

“Yes, you will. Even if you have to take more medication.”

Rubbing his head, Fresh grabbed his glasses, sat up more slowly, and put his glasses on.

“More…?”

“Sleeping pills, if your doctor believes they’re necessary, and only until you can sleep without them. You shouldn’t need your pain medication for much longer, either. Your face has mostly healed, hasn’t it?” Fresh looked away, and CQ added, “I’ve been meaning to ask. Why are you still wearing those bandages?”

“…Dunno.” He ate some food to avoid talking.

More pills sounded okay. Maybe an appointment wouldn’t be too bad, so long as he didn’t have to tell his doctor about his nightmares. That feeling was still there, demanding he refuse help, but the prospect of a solution he knew could work was too great to refuse. Besides, CQ wouldn’t let him.

* * *

 

Fresh’s doctor prescribed him sleeping pills. Before he got the chance to try them, he and CQ brought Geno home. He seemed more alert than usual, but by the time CQ rolled his wheelchair inside, Fresh felt sure Geno didn’t want to be there any more than he did.

Together, CQ and Fresh heaved Geno up the stairs. It felt like they were moving furniture, not moving a family member in. They reached his door, and Geno looked down the hall, gripping his scarf. Error’s room sat right between his and CQ’s. It sat like an enormous hole no one dared talk about, a hole ripping their family apart even as they came back together. Fresh didn’t understand why Geno had told their mother he wanted to come home. Even Fresh would rather stay at the hospital.

They settled Geno into his bed, and CQ left to get him some water. Fresh sat in the chair beside the bed. It felt surreal being in here, like he had entered a dream or a movie he had seen only once as a child. From the time Geno fell into a coma to just the other day, when CQ had made sure everything was ready for his return, Fresh had never seen anyone set foot in this room. He supposed it had been almost as much a hole to them as Error’s room was now.

“Ya sure about dis, Geno? Maybe it’s not too late ta change ya mind.”

Geno gazed at the ceiling. Fresh lowered his head. Geno still didn’t know the details of why Error had given up, that Fresh had indirectly convinced him to. If Geno found out… There was a limit to his kindness and understanding. Fresh would lose him too, if he hadn’t already.

That night, Fresh tested the sleeping pills. They helped him fall asleep, but he woke up in the middle of the night, unrested after another nightmare. His pain meds had worked better. They had even given him a warm feeling that the sleeping pills hadn’t. Fresh had to remind himself why his pain meds weren’t an option anymore.

He sat at the table for breakfast, supporting his head in one hand as he ate. CQ looked him over.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah.” His guilt deepened more with every lie, but since he had always been honest growing up, CQ believed him—at least until he dozed off, his head slipping from his hand and dropping face-first into his bowl of Froot Loops. He jolted upright, blowing milk out of his nose hole.

“…Fresh.”

He got up, grabbed a paper towel, and dried his face.

“If the pills don’t help, we can try another kind.”

“No, Ma, I swear dey helped. It’ll jus’ take more than one night ta catch up on all da sleep I lost.”

CQ sighed. “I suppose you’re right.” But she didn’t sound entirely convinced.

Fresh gave the sleeping pills another try that night. He woke even earlier. Head throbbing, he sat up and grabbed his pain meds. For a while, he gazed at the bottle, his eye drooping and losing focus.

What did Ink know, anyway? Fresh knew what was best for him. It was the only way.

But he had promised not to. He had promised Ink, his only friend. Who he hadn’t spoken to since then. Whose texts he was ignoring. Some friend Fresh was. Some brother. Some son.

He had failed Error. He had failed everyone. One more failure wouldn’t make much difference. They should know better than to trust him, and sooner or later, they’d have to learn.

Fresh opened the bottle and poured four pills into his hand. He swallowed them one at a time. Setting aside the bottle of meds, he already felt better. He lay down and closed his eye. Within minutes, the warm feeling flowed through him, and he smiled. Was this…happiness? It was the closest he had ever come to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings:  
> Substance Abuse  
> Mentions of Suicide  
> Violent Imagery


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a great deal of struggle, second thoughts, and editing, I finally present the next chapter.  
> I hope you're ready.  
> Enjoy! ;D
> 
> 3/10/18 edit: More changes!
> 
> Content warnings can be found in the End Notes.

Fresh stopped nibbling on his waffle and dropped it on his plate with a grimace. One more bite and he might throw up. Nausea had woken him, and it had been getting worse all morning. He expected his meds were the cause, but nausea was a reasonable price to pay for sleep. At this point, nothing seemed like too great a price, though he hoped it wouldn’t last much longer.

“Something wrong with your food?”

CQ walked in, stopping beside the table, and Fresh forced a smile.

“Nah, it’s jus’ a li’l cold. Should throw it in da toaster for a bit longer. How’s Geno?”

“Well, he’s communicating a little more. He said he wants to see you.”

“For realsies?” An odd feeling rushed through Fresh. He tried to interpret it. Nervousness? Excitement? Whatever it was, it heightened his anxiety. He wasn’t sure he wanted to talk to Geno, but he didn’t want to avoid him, especially if he was asking for Fresh. As Fresh stood up, his nausea swelled, and he grimaced again. CQ stepped closer.

“What is it?”

“I’m jus’…not feelin’ so hot.”

CQ put a hand to his forehead and tried to pull his bandages out of the way. Fresh shrunk back.

“Ma, don’t—”

“I’m just trying to feel your temperature.”

“I didn’t mean—I don’t have a fever, okay?”

CQ frowned. “Then what’s wrong? Are you in pain?”

“No. Forget it, it’s not dat bad.”

He stalked past her and to the stairs. He stumbled over the first step, but he caught hold of the handrail and steadied himself. Funk, not again. He needed to be more wary of his impaired depth perception… He continued up. With every step, his anxiety grew, and in front of Geno’s door, he hesitated. Fresh knocked and entered. Geno looked at him, and Fresh sat in the chair beside his bed.

“Mornin’ bro. Ya wanted ta see me?”

Geno’s hand shifted toward him. “Y-you…okay?”

“…Yeah. An’ you?”

Geno’s hand trembled, and Fresh grabbed it, leaning closer.

“Do ya need anything?”

“Want…”

“…Yeah? Want what?”

Geno lowered his eye.

“Water?” said Fresh. Geno shook his head. “Ya wanna talk?” His face went blank. Fresh’s smile faltered. “Geno?”

He lay motionless. Fresh waited, struggling to be patient. Then Geno looked away.

Fresh tried again. “Whaddya want, Geno?” No response. “C’mon, you can tell me.” He shook his head again. Fresh’s face fell. “Brah—”

At the sound of footsteps, he glanced over his shoulder. CQ walked in and put her hands on her hips.

“No more running, Fresh.”

Well, _this_ feeling was definitely nervousness.

“I jus’ came ta talk with Geno.”

“So you’ll talk with him, but not me? Are you going to tell him how you’re not feeling well?”

Geno’s face scrunched up with worry.

“I’m fine,” said Fresh. “But yo, I totes should finish breakfast.”

He made to leave; distress flashed in Geno’s eye, and his grip on Fresh’s hand tightened, forcing him to stop.

“We’ll talk later, ’kay?” Fresh pulled his hand free and strode to the door. CQ caught the back of his shirt, and Fresh jerked to another stop.

“What did I just say?” said CQ.

“Ma, please, I gotta eat!”

“That can wait. Stop making excuses. If you’re not feeling well—”

“I told ya I’m fine!” He struggled to pull himself free.

“Don’t lie to me!”

“Lemme go—”

Harsh coughing filled the air; they froze, then turned to Geno. CQ and Fresh rushed toward the bed.

“Geno!”

His coughing died down. “S…s-stop…”

Guilt surged through Fresh. He had grown all too familiar with the feeling. With his mother distracted making sure Geno was okay, Fresh considered slipping out the door, but Geno’s gaze fixed on him, rooting him to the spot. Fresh stared at his feet until he got an idea.

“Ma, maybe Geno could use some fresh air? Can I go for a walk with him? I mean, if ya wanna, broski.”

CQ looked at Fresh, and then back at Geno, who nodded.

“Well…” said CQ. “I don’t know…” Geno gave her a pleading look, and she wavered. “Why don’t I go with you?”

Fresh made a face. There really wasn’t a way out of talking to her, was there?

Geno made a sound of protest. They stared at him, and he reached toward Fresh. CQ sighed.

“If that’s what you want.”

She brought his wheelchair over and lifted him into it. Having seen his mother bring Geno up and down the stairs by herself without much difficulty, Fresh had found that trying to help only complicated the process and made Geno feel like more of a burden. So he went to the table, grabbed his waffle, and nibbled on it some more as he waited by the door. It still made him want to throw up. CQ arrived with Geno, and Fresh pushed his wheelchair outside.

“Stay within the block,” CQ called after them.

“Will do,” said Fresh.

“And come back within an hour!”

Fresh gave her the thumbs up without looking back. The moment he heard the door shut, he slid the waffle into his pack to throw away later. What a waste.

They stayed quiet. While grateful that Geno had refused their mother’s company, Fresh supposed Geno wanted to talk to him alone. Considering how Geno always worried over his brothers, he no doubt hoped to discuss Fresh’s feelings. Not that Geno could talk much. Halfway down the sidewalk, he made a sound between a mumble and a whimper.

“Bro?” said Fresh.

Geno went limp. Feeling still sicker, Fresh slowed down. As much as he hated when Geno’s awareness slipped, and as uncomfortable as this silence was, Fresh found it easier than talking about himself. His anxiety faded more every minute. Just as he dared hope they could finish the walk without another word, Geno stirred. He bent his arm behind the wheelchair, grasping at the air as though in search of his brother. Fresh held his hand.

“I’m right here.”

He probably wasn’t the brother Geno wanted to find there.

“It’s… You’re…” Geno lapsed into incoherent frustration.

“Take ya time,” said Fresh.

Geno mumbled about it being okay to…something. To feel hurt or angry? CQ had tried to say as much. Why did she and Geno want to talk about such painful things? Talking wouldn’t make the pain any easier to handle. Fresh had opened up to Ink, just barely, and it had made things worse. He refused to make that mistake again.

Geno’s hand twitched. Oh no—Fresh was squeezing him too hard—he let go and gripped the wheelchair handles.

“Sorry…”

Arm dangling over the side of his chair, Geno lowered his head. Neither spoke again for several minutes. Fresh glowered at his hands, almost forgetting to watch where he was going.

“Have…” said Geno. Fresh glanced at him. “Have you…?”

Geno relapsed into mumbling, then sounds, before pressing his hand against his face. Fresh pretended not to understand, but Geno kept trying.

“Hhh…healed?”

Fresh sighed. “Just about.”

“H-how’d…”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Geno started coughing again. Tensing, Fresh stopped and hurried to his brother’s side. Geno’s coughs grew louder, harsher.

“Geno! Bro—”

Geno clutched his chest, face twisting. Paralyzed, Fresh’s mind fell blank. Before he could even try to move, Geno’s body relaxed, his coughs growing weaker. He grasped Fresh’s arm and tried to give him a reassuring smile. It didn’t work. Fresh had gotten so focused on Geno’s minimal consciousness, so lost in Error’s death and his own pain and exhaustion, that he had forgotten how weak Geno’s soul was.

What if, after all this, his soul failed him? What if, like just now, Fresh froze up at the worst possible moment and failed to get him help? What if Fresh lost both brothers despite being given a chance to save them? Did Geno even have a chance?

The doctors hadn’t found a way to “fix” him, and it looked like they never would.

He had a better chance of dying young than making a meaningful recovery.

A bout of sickness, or a single bad injury, might be all it took.

His strength seeping from his body, Fresh sank to his knees. Even as Geno squeezed his arm, the whole world slid out of focus, out of reach. A muffled voice called out, meaningless noise.

He felt numb. All those years spent not caring that Geno would die, and now nothing else seemed to matter. All those years not understanding why Error refused to accept Geno’s fate, and now Fresh found himself doing the same thing. Geno had to stay alive.

_“No sense keepin’ him alive.”_

Geno’s hand went limp, and Fresh’s arm slid out of his grasp.

_“He may as well be dead already, ya know?”_

Fresh trembled, breathing faster. Tears burned his eye sockets.

_“And maybe once he’s gone, all of ya will quit actin’ so unfresh and finally get on with ya lives.”_

Every gasp of air suffocated his soul. His head reeled. Falling, weightless, insides billowing, he bent over and threw up.

The air kept thinning. Everything faded in and out. Make it stop—

Something brushed against his shoulder, grasping it. He gave a final retch, and slowly steadying, he raised his head.

“F-Fresh!”

He looked at the figure next to him. His eye refocused. Geno. Geno’s gaze did not waver, but he failed to hide a wince.

“No…” said Fresh. “No, no…”

If he lost anyone else…

“Fresh?”

…he didn’t think he’d be able to take it.

“Fr…”

Maybe…he’d rather join Error.

“Fresh…!”

He grabbed Geno’s hand and pulled himself closer. “Please… You, you can’t—”

Geno looked blank, but he held tight to Fresh’s hand.

“D-don’t leave me, p-please don’t—”

Geno frowned.

“You c-can’t die, Geno, p-p-please don’t die!”

His eye widened. He squeezed Fresh’s hand.

“Please… Please…”

“I won’t,” said Geno. Fresh searched his brother’s face. “I…I p-promise.”

He knew Geno’s promise meant no more than his own, but he clung to it, forcing himself to believe. He had no other choice.

“I’m…” said Geno. “I’m h…”

Fresh sagged against Geno’s wheelchair, gazing up into his eye.

“…h-here… I w-won’t…”

Geno’s voice faded. Fresh tensed.

“Geno…?”

Geno slumped. Fear clawed its way up inside Fresh, but he fought to keep it down, telling himself that it would be okay. He had Geno. Geno wasn’t going anywhere.

He kept reassuring himself until his anxiety returned to normal levels. Too drained to move, Fresh only sat there, still holding Geno’s hand. For a minute, he almost felt okay.

* * *

 

Fresh opened the front door and maneuvered Geno’s wheelchair inside. Everything felt unreal after… He continued burying the memory. He glanced around, expecting to see their mother, but he didn’t, so he headed to the stairs. Geno made a sound, and Fresh stopped.

“What is it?”

“I, want…” Geno looked like he was already changing his mind. This again? What was so difficult to ask for?

Fresh knelt next to the wheelchair and grabbed Geno’s shoulder, looking him in the eye. “Geno brah. Whatever ya want…whatever ya need…I can’t help ya if ya don’t tell me.”

Once again, Fresh questioned what was wrong with himself. Here he was asking Geno to talk to him, while Fresh refused to open up to anyone. But this was different. Right? No one could help Fresh; he only wanted, needed, the impossible. No one could bring back Error, or take away these thoughts and feelings. But if there was a chance Fresh could help Geno with something, anything, he had to know. He had to try.

Geno lowered his head.

“See his…p-picture…”

Fresh stared at him for a moment before it clicked.

“Oh.”

…Why? Why would Geno want to go near the most painful reminder of all? Standing up, Fresh grabbed the handles of the wheelchair. He hesitated.

“Ya sure?”

Geno nodded. Doubting this would help him, Fresh pushed Geno over to the corner where the dusty photograph sat on its table. Fresh hadn’t gotten this close or even looked at it since returning from the funeral. He had avoided this room as much as possible, and he had no desire to stay in it a second longer than necessary.

“Gimme a shout when ya wanna go back ta ya room.”

Geno reached toward him. Apologizing in his mind, he strode out, almost breaking into a run. He sat on the floor beside the living room entrance and wondered why Geno kept hurting himself. Returning to this broken home… Talking about the pain… Now this. It made no sense. Fresh feared he understood people even less since gaining emotions. Or maybe Geno was more messed up in the head than Fresh had thought. Was leaving him by Error’s photograph the right thing to do? Nothing felt like the right thing anymore. Everything he did felt wrong, and trying only exhausted him more. Simply thinking exhausted him, and the thoughts never left him alone.

“Fresh?” He jumped, only now seeing his mother approaching. “Where’s Geno?”

Fresh gestured into the living room. CQ glanced over at the corner, frowning in thought before turning back to Fresh.

“Well… Com called while you were out. Seems Ink’s been trying to reach you, but you won’t answer his texts or return his calls.”

Fresh froze and avoided meeting CQ’s gaze.

“Did something happen?”

“Wha? No,” said Fresh. “I lost my phone…”

He had prepared this lie. He felt disgusting.

“Lost it?” said CQ. “It's not like you to lose something.”

Fresh spoke in a murmur. “Haven’t exactly been myself lately, have I?”

His mother faltered. Fresh closed his eye, longing for sleep, but at the sound of movement, he looked and saw CQ sitting beside him.

“Neither have I,” she said. “I’m sorry if I’ve been pushing you too hard to talk. I’m just…worried. It’s not good for you to bottle your emotions up for so long. You don’t have to try to deal with them by yourself.”

Fresh gazed at the floor. He did. He did have to.

But why? He had no answer. Maybe CQ and Geno were right. Maybe they understood something he didn’t, and talking really could help, if only a little. Then why not give it another try? What was holding him back?

“I know it’s hard,” said CQ. “But talking about it will make both of us feel better. Trust me.”

Near silence permeated the house, Geno’s voice the only sound. It wavered, too soft to make out his words, but Fresh knew he was talking to Error’s photograph. Did Geno believe Error could hear? If only he could. Fresh had so much he wanted to say to Error. He wished they could talk, one more time—truly talk like they never could before.

CQ touched his shoulder. “Fresh, sweetie, please tell me what you’re thinking.”

He gripped his arm, trying to stop himself from shaking.

“…Okay. It’s okay. Come here.” CQ pulled him into a hug. Slowly, he hugged her back. Pressing his face into her shoulder, he spoke, voice muffled.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. If you're not ready, I’ll wait. But please come to me when you are. Please.”

She rubbed his back.

“I love you, Fresh.”

Why? How? He didn’t even like himself.

They let each other go, and CQ smiled at him. He lowered his head.

“Hey…” She placed her hand against his cheek; Fresh flinched back, and CQ withdrew her hand. “I’m sorry—did that hurt?”

“No. I…” He turned away, touching his bandages.

“Fresh… Has your face not healed yet?”

“It’s fine. Jus’ needs a bit longer.”

“Can I see?”

He tensed. “What?”

“I want to see how well you’ve healed. Besides, it’s high time you took those off. You know you could’ve stopped wearing them—”

“Fresh!” called Geno.

He sprung to his feet and strode into the living room. “Ya done, brah?”

Geno nodded, and Fresh paused. Geno’s face looked damp. Fresh wondered if there was something more he could do for him, but all this time spent around his family had worn Fresh out and worsened his headache. All he wanted was to go to his room. With CQ approaching, he trudged upstairs. His mother watched him go but stayed behind to talk to Geno.

Closing his door, Fresh glanced at the clock. Not time for his meds yet… They used to help for longer than this. It hurt too much to wait. He swallowed a couple pills and plopped himself down on his bed, his mind dragging itself over the things CQ had said to him.

If she and Geno could talk about the hurt, but Fresh couldn’t, did that make them stronger than him? Fresh continued trying to hide his pain, and his injuries, not just from his family, but also from himself. At least his mother would stop trying to talk about it. Well, not his injuries…

He couldn’t hide behind these bandages forever. Eventually, he’d have to face what he had done. He would have to tell Geno the truth.

He feared scars would form, that people would stare, or try too hard not to. He feared no one would be able to look at him the same way anymore. He feared seeing himself in the mirror and remembering. As if he could ever forget…

Now that he had pills to fight his nightmares, sleep was as close as he could come to forgetting. All morning (was it not even lunchtime yet?) he had been waiting for night. How pathetic. He would rather sleep his days away than spend them with those he finally cared about. Talking with his family shouldn’t stress him out. Thinking of his friend shouldn’t make him angry.

Fresh’s hands clenched. Was he still mad at Ink? Forgiving him seemed almost easy, but the thought of talking to him again, looking him in the eye and hiding the truth, made Fresh freeze up. By breaking his promise, had he also broken what was left of their friendship?

With a shuddering breath, Fresh reached into his pack and pulled out his phone. His hands shook as he turned it on.

Four missed calls. Twenty-seven new texts.

He scanned through the texts, and some jumped out at him.

_Why aren’t you answering me?_

_Are you mad that I made you promise?_

_I won’t apologize. What you did was dangerous._

_I just don’t want you to hurt yourself._

_Please say something._

_Dammit Fresh stop ignoring me!_

_Please don’t shut me out_

_We don’t have to talk but please say something._

_I’m sorry. Just please let me know you’re ok_

For a while, he only stared at Ink’s words, fighting back tears. His fingers moved as if on their own, tapping out two words before stopping.

_I’m ok_

He couldn’t bring himself to lie to Ink.

He must know that Fresh was, physically, okay. CQ would have told Com if that weren’t the case. And Ink had to know that no matter how much they pretended, neither of them was emotionally okay. What Ink really wanted to know was that Fresh hadn’t fallen to the point Error had. But what was Fresh supposed to say? That he wasn’t going to kill himself? If he said anything at all, Ink would keep trying to talk to him.

If Fresh stayed silent, maybe Ink would give up. Maybe they’d never speak to each other again.

He didn’t want that, but he couldn’t bear to face Ink.

Fresh turned off his phone and curled up, waiting for night, for when he wouldn’t have to think about this anymore.

* * *

 

After supper, Fresh lay in bed again, ignoring the (rather one-sided) conversation going on behind his and Geno’s shared wall. He fiddled with his bottle of meds, tempted yet soothed by the rattling of pills inside. Just a while longer…

Soon Geno’s door creaked, and footsteps approached Fresh’s room. He shoved his meds onto his nightstand and grabbed the book he’d left there, opening it and pretending to read. His mother knocked.

“May I come in?”

He lowered the book. “Yeah.”

CQ opened the door and looked him over. “Geno wants to see you.”

“Oh. Okie dokie.” He set the book aside and rolled out of bed, anxiety tumbling through him. As he passed his mother, she grabbed his shoulder. Fresh paused and looked at her.

“Ma?”

She hesitated, then gave a weak smile and shook her head, as if she thought she was being silly.

“It’s nothing. Just, we love you, Fresh.”

“…I know.”

CQ gave him a quick hug and left. He stood rooted to the spot, confusion and unease prickling inside him until he noticed Geno’s door stood ajar. Fresh braced himself and entered his brother’s room.

“Yo.”

Geno made a sound in greeting, then kept trying to talk. Fresh stayed by the door, mind scrabbling for an excuse to leave if Geno started prying again.

“…T-to…morrow…take me…on a walk?”

Fresh’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Brah, ya ask dat like ya a dog or somethin’.”

Geno smiled back, the expression just as fake as Fresh’s. He looked away and squeezed a fistful of his blanket.

“…I’m s-sorry.”

“What’re ya all up apologizin’ for?”

“If you…d-don’t want…”

Fresh closed the door and stepped over.

“ ’Course we can go for another walk. Whenever ya want, broski.”

“R-really?”

“For realsies.” He made to sit in the chair beside the bed. Geno stretched out a hand to stop him, and then he touched the bed.

“H-here?”

Fresh smiled wider. It felt more natural than usual. “Sure! Ya know I’m always up for cuddles.” Well, he used to be. “Jus’ scooch over a bit.”

Geno didn’t seem to hear him.

“Here,” said Fresh. He carefully shifted him.

“No,” said Geno. Fresh stopped and drew back. Geno tried to make room on the bed, but all he managed was a squirm.

“C’mon, lemme help,” said Fresh.

“I-I can—”

Geno lurched toward the edge, and Fresh’s soul lurched with him. He caught Geno’s arm and steadied him.

“Careful, bro! Ya almost fell!”

Geno lowered his eye. Sighing, Fresh sat next to him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, drawing him close. It was a tight fit. They had grown so much—especially Fresh—and Geno was stuck with the bed he’d had six years ago. Their mother hadn’t been able to afford a new one, so she had set up some cushions on boxes at the end of the bed to support his feet.

“Yo, dis bed comfy ’nough for ya?”

Geno mumbled. Fresh watched him, but Geno kept his eye down.

“Wassup?” asked Fresh.

Geno’s head drooped, his eye losing focus. Fresh settled back against the pillows and tried to find a comfortable position for them both. He looked at the clouds painted on the walls for a while. They relaxed him somewhat, but it was a blue-gray kind of calm. Several minutes passed before Geno shifted, pressing his face into Fresh’s shoulder and gripping his shirt.

“I hate this.”

“Geno…?”

“I c-can’t…anything.” Fresh hesitated. “I-I can’t… I…”

His grip tightened, and he wailed in frustration. Fresh hugged him.

“Hey. You’ll get better. I know ya will. Ya jus’ need more time.”

“…I’m…so t-tired of…s-sleeping…”

Fresh stayed silent. As much as he craved sleep, he imagined six straight years of it would make him hate sleeping too—especially if he slept through the things Geno had.

Soon guilt crossed Geno’s face. “I-I’m sorry—you’ve—”

“It’s fine. I get it.” CQ must have told him about Fresh’s insomnia. Fresh wasn’t surprised.

“I…just…”

“Ya don’t have ta explain. An’ don’t worry ’bout me; I’m sleepin’ fine now.”

They lay in silence for a while. Fresh closed his eye, wondering what Ink was doing.

“…Talk?” said Geno. Fresh looked at him. He wouldn’t—after luring him into a false sense of security—

“Ya wanna talk about somethin’?”

“L-listen. Your…voice.”

“Huh?” He just wanted to listen to Fresh speak? “Ah. For sure, brotato chip.” He searched for a topic. “Hm… Yo, ya haven’t seen da newest Pokémon yet, huh? A couple new gens came out while ya were sleepin’.”

He launched into a description of the new Pokémon. Geno seemed to listen with all the focus he could muster, and though he still struggled to comprehend and maintain consciousness at times, Fresh found himself relaxing in a much warmer way. Over the next few hours, he talked about whatever trivial things came to mind. It reminded him of his chats with Ink, but he didn’t dwell on that. He was finally distracted from the pain again. Mostly.

* * *

 

Waking to a growing ache in his skull and Geno lying against him, Fresh took a few seconds to remember where he was. He’d fallen asleep? Without his meds? He gently moved Geno off, returned to his room, took a few pills, and slept through the rest of the night in his own bed.

In the morning, he and Geno took another walk, and Fresh talked to him some more. They agreed to watch a movie together; by the time Fresh pushed Geno’s wheelchair back inside, he had gathered the courage to spend a couple hours in the presence of Error’s photograph. As they approached the living room, CQ left it.

“You’re finally back—Ink came over. He’s been waiting for you.”

In the corner, Ink turned from Error’s photograph, his gaze locking on Fresh. All Fresh’s courage drained away, leaving his legs weak. Ink stepped toward him.

“Fresh—”

He hurried to and up the stairs.

“Wait!”

Fresh almost tripped on the last stair. With Ink’s footsteps close behind, Fresh burst into his room and slammed the door. He held it shut, breathing faster. The footsteps stopped right outside.

“Come on… I just want to talk.”

_Go away._

“You don’t have to say anything, just…let me in.”

Fresh kept his hands pressed against the door. Guilt oozed inside him. He waited for Ink to leave, or even to keep speaking. The silence deepened. Fresh closed his eye, letting darkness wash over him. Ink murmured.

“Please. Not you too. I can’t…do this again.”

Fresh stared at his hands. They slid off the door and dangled at his sides.

“…Fresh?”

The doorknob turned, the door starting to open. Jumping, Fresh slammed his hands back against the door, shutting it with a bang. He felt Ink push back, and Fresh threw his whole weight into the door. Ink pushed harder. Fresh dug his feet into the carpet.

“Stop it!” said Ink. “Let me in! Please!”

Disgust gushed up inside Fresh like vomit. He was such a coward. What was he so afraid of, anyway? He wouldn’t have to talk to Ink, or even look at him. Ink wasn’t going to read his mind and see that Fresh had broken his promise. It might hurt to sit in Ink’s presence and listen to what he had to say, but if Fresh shut him out like this, he might lose Ink forever.

Slowly, his senses numbed.

It was better this way. Fresh couldn’t be the friend Ink needed anymore. No—Fresh had never been the friend he needed. Ink deserved better. He deserved someone less selfish, less fake. He deserved a friend like Geno. Like Error.

Fresh had to make Ink give up on him, like Fresh had just given up on himself.

“Ink,” came CQ’s voice. “I’m sorry—maybe you should come back later—”

Ink pushed the door still harder. “No! I won’t leave! Not until I talk to Fresh!”

“You can’t force him to—”

“I tried!” Ink’s voice rose to a shout. “I tried giving him space, I tried waiting for him, when I should’ve just broken down his door! I could’ve saved him! I wanted to force my way in; it felt wrong leaving him in there, but I—I won’t—”

His and Fresh’s push on the door weakened as though their strength was being sapped away.

“…I won’t do that again.”

Ink’s breaths shook. The doorknob turned back; he had let it go. CQ spoke quietly.

“It’s not your fault, Ink. It’s no one’s fault.”

No one’s?

“I know,” said Ink. “I just…wish I’d seen it coming… Maybe we could’ve stopped him.”

Fresh sank to the carpet. Some part of him knew he wasn’t to blame—not completely, anyway. Fresh couldn’t understand his brother’s reasons with absolute certainty, but all he could think was that Error had done it because of Geno’s condition, because of the toll it had taken on Error and his fear of losing what had been left of Geno. Yet Fresh didn’t blame Geno, not one bit, nor did he blame their mother for losing hope. Error hadn’t barricaded himself in his room and refused contact with everyone until after attacking Fresh. He may not have pushed Error over the edge, but Fresh had led him to it and walked away with a shrug. So what if Fresh hadn’t known what he was doing? Ignorance was no excuse. Neither was emotionlessness. He should’ve known better. He had learned years ago not to interfere in things he didn’t understand, because every time he tried to help, he made the situation worse. It had taken too long to learn this simple lesson, and then, thinking he knew better, he had thrown it all aside.

“It’s okay,” said CQ. “You can go home. It won’t happen again.”

“But…” said Ink.

“I promise.”

Fresh felt sick. Of course he wasn’t going to follow in his brother’s footsteps. CQ didn’t have to promise that. Were they really that afraid he would?

“I just want to talk,” said Ink.

“I know,” said CQ. “But it won’t do any good if he’s not ready to listen.”

For a moment, Fresh only heard Ink sniffling.

“…You’re not giving me much choice, huh, Fresh? Fine… Take however long you need. I’ll wait for you.”

Fresh’s eye widened, and footsteps faded down the stairs.

Why was Ink still trying to be his friend? Why did he care? Fresh wasn’t worth waiting for…

A shadow passed into the crack under his door.

“May I come in?” asked CQ.

Fresh stayed silent. He didn’t really want to see her, but he didn’t care enough to stop her. His doorknob turned, and after a pause, the door pushed at him. He shifted, letting it open halfway. CQ slipped through and looked at him.

“I don’t suppose you want to talk about what happened between you two?”

Fresh wrapped his arms around his knees, keeping his face down. CQ closed the door and sat with him. She held him close.

“Then we don’t have to.”

Fresh heard the front door open and shut. Ink was gone—but Geno was still downstairs, probably waiting for him. He didn’t feel up to watching a movie anymore. While he hadn’t promised, Fresh felt he was going back on his word…letting Geno down.

He felt empty. It wasn’t the kind of emptiness he used to feel, a hole that didn’t know what it meant to be full. It was like a piece of him had been carved out.

* * *

 

Ink wasn’t the only visitor that day. In the afternoon, Fresh sat on his bed, trying to get lost in a book, and there was a knock downstairs. Wondering vaguely if Ink had returned, Fresh strained to hear his mother answer the door. He recognized a voice he hadn’t heard since the funeral.

They came upstairs, passing Fresh’s room and entering Geno’s.

“Hey there, Geno,” said Asy. There was no response. Fresh gazed at his book, trying not to listen in. He hoped Geno would be conscious enough to talk with Asy for a while. It might cheer him up a little.

Asy kept speaking, and Fresh soon heard his brother answer. He sounded rather happy. A small smile touched Fresh’s face, but only for a second. Geno never sounded happy around him anymore. Not surprising, considering the depressing mess Fresh had become. Sighing, he gave up on his book and set it aside, then plopped onto his side, back facing the door. Maybe he could take a nap…

In a few minutes, the talking next door stopped, pulling Fresh out of his thoughts. Just as the silence started worrying him, Asy’s voice drifted through the wall again.

“You mind waiting a bit? I’d like to say hi to Fresh, too.”

Oh, great. Fresh closed his eye. By the time Asy knocked, Fresh still hadn’t summoned the energy to sit back up and pretend to be okay.

“Heya, Fresh. Can I come in?”

“…Sure.”

The door creaked open and shut. The edge of the mattress sagged under Asy’s weight.

“How’re you holding up?” asked Asy. “…Yeah. I’m not doing so well either.” Fresh frowned. “But I want you to know I’m proud of you.”

Fresh opened his eye slowly. “Why?”

“Despite everything, you’ve stayed strong. Every day, you get up, and you keep trying your best. Even if it feels like nothing’s getting better, and the emotions seem like too much to bear, you haven’t given up.”

Pain squeezed Fresh’s chest, and his hands curled. Without thinking, he muttered.

“So he was weak?”

Asy paused, but when he spoke, his voice was sincere, even firm.

“No. Error was incredibly strong. He stayed strong for years. But…all those years wore him down.” Fresh’s anger died away, and he let himself go limp. “Fresh… Please remember that you don’t always have to rely on yourself. If you ever feel you’re not strong enough, you can always ask us for help. People are stronger together. Okay?”

The idea of seeking help still repulsed him somehow. He tried to figure out why, but thinking about it only made him feel more lost and alone.

“How’s the healing coming along?” asked Asy. Fresh twitched, and Asy waited. “Come on. Do you not want to talk to me? Or am I just saying all the wrong things? …At least look at me. Please?”

Reluctantly, Fresh turned onto his back and looked. Asy cast him a sad smile.

“I can barely see your face.” Fresh resisted turning away again. “So you don’t want to take those off?”

“…I’d rather wait.”

“Wait for what?”

With growing discomfort, Fresh sat up and lowered his head. “I dunno… For my face ta heal completely, I s’pose.”

“Ah. Does it look like it’ll take much longer?” Fresh fiddled with his gloves. “…Have you been checking it?”

He had taken his bandages off for showers, but he touched his face as little as possible and always avoided his reflection until he’d put new bandages on.

“Are you worried about scars?” asked Asy.

Fresh’s gaze drifted to the scars and colorful Band-Aids strewn over Asy’s arms, then to the scars on his face. Asy watched him patiently. Fresh looked away.

“Do people ever stare?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do ya…ever wanna hide ’em?”

“No.”

Fresh fell silent. He had thought Asy might understand, but his scars weren’t the result of a mistake that had led to someone’s suicide. Asy had his own past, and he had found a way to live with the reminders—but Fresh couldn’t see himself doing the same.

“Fresh. What are you really afraid of?” He glanced at Asy. “Do you think we’ll start hating you if you have scars?”

“…No…”

“Do you plan to stay wrapped up forever?”

“No…”

“Then what’s stopping you from taking them off right now?”

Fresh hesitated. His bandages made it unclear how bad the damage was. If he took them off, Geno would see that he had lied, that it was worse than it looked. Fresh wouldn’t be able to keep pretending it had been some sort of accident, though Geno probably knew he was hiding a worse truth. Either way, he had to tell Geno eventually. He just wasn’t ready.

Asy waited, and Fresh hunched up. “…Geno doesn’t know. How I got hurt. Or how bad it is.”

Another pause.

“Do you want me to tell him?” asked Asy.

Fresh’s head jerked up. “No!”

“Are you going to?”

Asy looked him in the eye. Fresh stared at his feet. Would he ever have the courage to tell Geno? It would be easier to let Asy or CQ do it, but that felt like a cop-out.

“He has the right to know,” said Asy.

“I know…”

Asy grabbed Fresh’s shoulder. “If you want, we can tell him together.” Fresh shook his head. “You’d rather do it yourself? That’s fine. But please don’t put it off. I think you’ll feel better once he knows.”

No way. Geno wouldn’t feel better, either. While Fresh still believed in honesty, some secrets seemed kinder than the truth. Not that he had a choice. He trembled. He needed to get it over with. Be brave, he told himself, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to curl up, sleep, and forget about everything. But instead, he nodded.

Asy pulled him into a hug. “It won’t be as bad as you think.”

Slowly, he let go; Fresh slid off the bed, and Asy followed him out. Sweat beaded Fresh’s face. They stopped outside Geno’s door. Fresh wobbled and clutched his own arms.

“Breathe,” said Asy.

Fresh realized he was holding his breath. He closed his eye and took a few gulps of air.

“Do you want me to be in there with you?” Fresh shook his head. “Okay.” Asy gave him an encouraging smile and opened the door.

CQ looked over from the chair. Her eyes widened. “Fresh, what’s wrong?”

“I…” She hurried over. He must have looked as sick as he felt. “I jus’ wanna talk ta Geno.”

She glanced at Asy, who nodded. CQ frowned and stepped aside. Focusing on his breathing, Fresh walked over to his brother, and the door closed behind him. He sat in the chair. Geno lay motionless. Fresh waited, trying to figure out how to tell him.

The minutes dragged by. Geno didn’t stir, and Fresh shifted in his seat for the umpteenth time. He crossed and uncrossed his arms and legs. No position felt comfortable.

He heard voices from his mother’s room. They were probably talking about him. He tried not to imagine specifics. They wouldn’t say any of the terrible things his mind came up with. They wouldn’t…

He wiped his sweaty fingers on his pants and grabbed Geno’s hand.

“C’mon, bro. I need ta tell ya somethin’…”

Geno’s eye remained glazed. Fresh bent over, laying his forehead on Geno’s arm and squeezing his hand as hard as he dared. He was starting to lose what little nerve he had.

Deepening his breaths, he waited.

And waited.

Geno’s hand twitched.

Fresh raised his head. Geno frowned at him. He tried to smile, but his mouth barely moved. No time; he had to say it before losing his nerve completely, before Geno fell unconscious again.

“Hey… Uh… I… Ya wanna know how…I got hurt, right?”

Geno didn’t answer.

“Well…” Fresh let him go and looked down. His whole body shook. “I didn’t—I just—I hadn’t really started feelin’ yet, and…” No excuses. “I said…some horrible things. A-and he…he…”

The words catching in his throat, he forced himself to look at his brother. Geno’s frown remained. Why was this so hard? He gestured to his face, willing Geno to make the connection. Geno only stared as though not sure why Fresh was there, or if he really was.

“H-he did dis ta me.”

Geno showed no comprehension. Fresh’s hands curled.

“Snap out of it!” No. It wasn’t Geno’s fault. But Fresh didn’t have the courage to wait and try again later. It had to come out now. All of it. “He b-beat me up. He held me down an’ stabbed me in da eye socket and punched me till Ma pulled him off and—”

It took a moment, but Geno’s eye widened. Fresh faltered before his nervous tension gripped him tighter. He held a hand to his bandaged eye.

“And I can’t, I can’t s-see outta dis eye anymore.” Tears rose to Geno’s eye socket. “B-but dat’s okay! I don’t care.”

“Fresh…”

“Really, I don’t! I mean…” His face cracked into a wobbly smile. “My depth perception’s a li’l outta whack, but no biggie! I’m startin’ ta adjust, and…”

The tears spilled down Geno’s face, his eyelight quivering. Fresh’s smile faded.

“Geno… D-don’t.” Geno’s breathing shuddered. Why had Fresh done this? “Please, bro. It’s okay. Really.” Geno shook his head. “It’s okay. I’m okay. So don’t cry.”

He knew it was useless, that Geno couldn’t stop even if he tried. Fresh pressed his face to his hands. His skull pounded as though his bandages were tightening around it. No point keeping them on anymore, right? If he changed his mind, he could always wrap himself back up.

Fresh yanked his hat and glasses off. Geno watched as he unwrapped the bandages and let them fall to the floor.

The air felt cool on Fresh’s sweaty skull. He touched his trembling fingers to his face, feeling the damage. His fingertip traced a crack beneath his eye socket. He kept that eye shut. Geno made a feeble sound.

“ ’S it bad?” asked Fresh.

Geno seemed unable to look away.

“…Be right back.”

Leaving his hat and glasses behind, Fresh strode out and to the bathroom. He stopped in front of the mirror.

Cracks, thin and scarring, were scattered across his face. The widest crack jutted down from the bottom of his eye socket. His bruises had almost faded, unlike the shadows under his eyes. The light in his good eye wavered.

For a while, Fresh could only stare. He barely recognized his reflection, and not just because of the injuries. His eyes prickled, and he waited for the tears to come, but his sockets remained dry; instead, his face started to feel clammy. He dampened a washcloth with water from the sink and rubbed the sweat off.

This was it, then. His new, broken face to match his new, broken self. Just one more thing to check, for the full effect.

He tried to open his left eye. It twinged, but after a moment, it flickered open. For all the difference it made to his vision, he may as well have kept it closed. He looked in the mirror. His socket was empty, just like he used to be, and as dark as the eyes of the demons in his dream.

Shutting his eyes, he turned away. He knew, from then on, he would avoid his reflection whenever possible. If only he could prevent others from seeing him that easily.

He didn’t want to go back to Geno’s room. Couldn’t he just…stay there? Fresh lowered himself to the floor and hid his face in his knees. Maybe he should bandage himself back up…

…

If he disappeared, how long would it take for someone to notice? Not long, probably.

Why did that make him feel worse?

…

A knock jolted him out of his daze. He was still huddled on the bathroom floor? How long had he…?

“Hey kiddo,” said Asy. “…How bad is it?”

Fresh raised his head with difficulty, as though all his thoughts physically weighed it down. He managed to lift it just enough to see Asy’s feet in the doorway.

“Hm… That’s not so bad,” said Asy. Fresh frowned. “And I’m not saying that to try to make you feel better. It only seems bad because the scars are still so…well…fresh. You’re not used to them.” Fresh let his head drop back against his knees. “And because…you haven’t come to terms with them yet.”

Asy sat on the floor beside him.

“Well this is comfy. Nothing like a cold, hard bathroom floor to make ya wanna curl up and take a nap. In fact, I think I might just—”

Asy’s arms wrapped around him, and his head clunked against Fresh’s. Loud, fake snoring filled the room. To his bewilderment, Fresh almost smiled.

“Wha…” The snores grew louder and longer. Fresh’s mouth twitched. “U-Uncle Asy!”

“Zzzwuh?”

They both raised their heads, and Asy blinked a few times before peering around sleepily, still clinging to Fresh like a child with a stuffed animal. Fresh’s mouth stretched into a smile.

All he could say was, “Da heckity hey?”

What was this feeling? It didn’t make sense. No feeling really did, but this one felt…weird. Good weird.

Asy let him go and patted his back, grinning. “There we go.”

“I don’t get it,” said Fresh.

“You will.”

Gazing at Asy’s scarred face, Fresh’s smile faded.

“How…can ya not care ’bout ya scars?”

“I wouldn’t say I don’t care.” Asy gave him a contemplative look. “I’m not proud of my scars. But I’m not ashamed of them, either. They’re a reminder of a dark time in my life…a reminder of who I used to be. It’s not easy to remember, but without my experiences, I wouldn’t be who, or where, I am today. So my scars are also a reminder of how far I’ve come. They’re proof that I survived, and came out stronger.”

Fresh gazed at the wall and touched his face. He didn’t feel like he had survived. He had come out weaker. He hated who he used to be _and_ who he’d become. And while his scars were a reminder of the mistake he’d give anything to undo, that mistake happened during a better time—when Error was alive. Nausea sunk through him as he absorbed this new feeling. How screwed up was he, to look back on the days of being hated and beaten up, and feel longing?

How screwed up was he to love the one who had hurt him so much?

“Hey.”

Fresh looked at Asy, who pulled a box of Band-Aids from his pocket.

“You’re not out of these dark times yet. So for now…”

He stuck a purple Band-Aid on the crack under Fresh’s eye.

“It’s okay to need more time to heal.”

Fresh’s mouth trembled. He would heal, right? Maybe it would take a long time, but there had to be ways to ease the pain as he waited, and even ways to speed up the process.

Asy pulled him into a hug, and Fresh squeezed him back.

“Thanks…”

“Any time,” said Asy. “We’re all here for you.”

Somehow, Fresh felt a little more hopeful…a little less alone. He held on to the feeling, even as doubt squirmed into his grip.

Asy spoke gently. “Come on. Geno’s waiting.”

Geno’s teary-eyed stare pierced Fresh’s mind. His fingers tightened around Asy’s jacket. Did he have to face Geno again already? He had made his brother cry. Those tears were for Fresh. It was too late to cover his face back up; Geno knew the damage, and he knew it was because Fresh had pushed Error too far, once again, because he never learned. He had made another mistake he could never take back.

“Fresh?”

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t.”

“Sure you can.”

“He doesn’t wanna see me. Not like dis. He’ll jus’—”

“Stop.” Asy pried him off and looked into both his eye sockets. “Stop thinking so much. You’re his brother, and he loves you. He wants to see you. It’ll be fine. Trust me.”

Fresh tried to stop the thoughts and worries grinding into him. Asy stood and helped him to his feet. Then he led Fresh back to Geno’s room.

CQ was in the chair again, holding Fresh’s hat and glasses. She stared at him as he approached. He knew she couldn’t help it, seeing her son so scarred and broken. Heck, that made both of her remaining children. Fresh almost expected the grief to etch itself into her face, scarring her too.

He held his hands out for his things. Her brow furrowed. What did that look mean? Was she finally mad at him for pushing Error— No. Stop. Stop analyzing everything. It only made him feel worse.

She gave him the hat and glasses, and he put them on before turning to his brother. Geno had been watching him. Even with his tears gone, his expression wasn’t much different than before. Fresh forced a smile.

“C’mon, broski. It’s rude ta stare.”

Geno looked down. “Sorry…”

“D-don’t worry ’bout it.”

Silence fell. CQ stood and touched Fresh’s arm, worry in her eyes again. She hugged him. He didn’t get why she kept doing that. It didn’t comfort him like Asy had, but maybe it comforted her, so he put his arms around her.

“It’s gonna be okay,” she said. They had to keep telling themselves that. They let each other go, and Fresh looked away. More silence, then CQ spoke again. “I’ll give you some space.”

She headed to the door. Wait, did she think he didn’t want her around? …Did he? Asy gave Fresh one last look and a nod before following CQ out. Oh. They were letting him and Geno talk alone.

But he didn’t know what to say, and Geno kept his eye lowered. He knew it: Geno didn’t want to see him, or talk to him. Why would he? He must have been devastated that Error had continued to hurt their little brother while Geno was unconscious, but it couldn’t have come as a shock. They had always been that way. And since being angry at Error was too painful, Geno had surely redirected all that anger toward Fresh. He must have been so disappointed in him.

…No. Geno wasn’t like that. He had always stood up for Fresh and done his best to understand him, never hating him for being the way he was. But Geno _should_ hate him.

Ugh, why couldn’t Fresh just stop thinking? He wished Geno would say something to distract him. Actually, he wanted to leave. Did Geno want him to, or was he waiting for Fresh to speak first? But what could he say? Nothing, so he stood there, soaking in self-disgust and anxiety.

“Th-thank you,” said Geno.

…What? Fresh must have misunderstood.

“For what?”

“B-being honest.”

“…Ya really glad I told ya?”

“Yes.”

He couldn’t tell whether or not Geno was lying.

“Den why won’t ya look at me?”

Slowly, Geno met his eye, but his gaze shifted almost at once. He looked unsure, almost scared. Geno had always been an open book, but Fresh’s mind was too muddled to read him now. He wondered if this was how they all felt when he refused to talk to them.

“W-wanna…” said Geno, “watch that, that movie?”

Fresh stood blankly. Choosing to ignore the problem, instead of talk… He understood, but he wasn’t sure he liked Geno doing it. Still, Geno was offering them both a way out of the corner Fresh had backed them into. He didn’t really want to watch a movie, but he wanted to try.

“Yeah, sure brah.”

Whether because this was over, or because he had one less secret clumped inside him, Fresh felt lighter.

They joined CQ and Asy in the living room. Moved from his wheelchair to the couch, Geno snuggled between Fresh and Asy. The movie actually distracted Fresh pretty well from Error’s picture in the corner, but not from his thoughts. This was too normal…the sort of normal they hadn’t experienced since before Geno’s coma, the normal that Error had missed so much. It almost felt as though Fresh had stolen Error’s happily ever after.

Ha. What part of this was happy?

…The part where, for a minute, he let himself imagine Error was alive there with them?

The few seconds he felt at peace with his family, before guilt swallowed him back up?

Geno was home. Fresh could love, even though he didn’t fully comprehend what that meant. He couldn’t grasp the thought that had Error been alive, their lives would be closer to perfect than ever before. It seemed incredible that a single life made the difference between happiness and misery, when the only life that used to matter to Fresh was his own, and even then it had never mattered this much.

Hadn’t Error known how important he was to them? Had no one ever told him? Or had words not been enough to make him understand? They should have tried harder. But who was Fresh to judge, when he had been unable to show Error anything but indifference?

If only he could see Fresh now.

* * *

 

Propped against his pillows, Geno cuddled with Fresh, listening to him talk again. This time, Fresh struggled to think of topics, and noticing this, Geno suggested they play Pokémon. Fresh got out their Game Boys and wiped the dust off Geno’s. Unable to hold it up for long, Geno had to lay his on his lap. He had trouble pressing the buttons and keeping track of what was happening, but they managed a couple of battles. While the games weren’t that old, there was something…nostalgic about them. Maybe that had more to do with Geno snuggling his head into Fresh’s shoulder, smiling, and making funny noises when Fresh knocked his Pokémon out. He went easy on Geno, waiting patiently whenever his focus wavered and slipped. It drew out the battles, but Fresh didn’t mind. This was…nice. Better than pills, even.

This was happiness.

He choked up, and his eye sockets felt wet again. He tried to hide it from Geno.

“W-what’s wrong?”

Fresh blinked hard. “Nothin’. I’m…I’m happy?”

Geno frowned at his tone.

“I just…” said Fresh. “It’s really nice, ya know?”

He set his Game Boy down and rubbed his eye sockets. Geno hugged him.

“Yeah.”

Fresh hugged him back. This was okay, right? Being happy, so soon after losing Error?

…Dang it. He just had to ruin everything. How was he supposed to heal if he kept spitting out the medicine? It all just tasted so bittersweet.

“I…I love you,” said Geno.

It took Fresh a moment to realize he could finally say it, and mean it.

“I love you too.”

Geno tensed, then slowly looked up at him. His eyelight shone, and tears rose to his socket, like the first time he saw Fresh smile. And Geno smiled now. Emotions spilled from his face like water from an overflowing sink. Fresh’s mind scrambled to identify them: joy, hope, and pain. Fresh choked up all over again.

If that weren’t enough, Geno gave a shaky laugh, and it grew. Then Fresh started laughing. They held each other, their laughter half-dissolving into sobs, and Fresh wondered how it was possible to feel all this at once, and why they felt it at all. It had hit them out of nowhere. Oh god! Had they snapped from the grief? The thought made him sob-laugh harder. It hurt. He couldn’t breathe, but it felt so good.

He didn’t remember anything that happened after they calmed down, but he woke the next morning to find Geno drooling on his shoulder. Fresh’s mouth quirked. He shifted into a more comfortable position, hoping to get some more sleep, but his head ached.

Wait. Had he slept through the whole night without taking his meds? Without a single nightmare? Before he could process this, the pain worsened to a pounding in his skull. He slid out from under Geno and the blanket and hurried to his room. Just opening his bottle of pills relaxed him. He swallowed three, or four. Or maybe five. He wasn’t sure. Still tired. But the clock showed it was later than he’d thought, so instead of going back to sleep, he dragged himself off to take a shower. Only after changing into clean clothes and reapplying the Band-Aid Asy had given him did he realize his glasses were missing. He returned to Geno’s room and found them on the nightstand with the hat he wore yesterday and their Game Boys. CQ must have come in after they fell asleep. That explained how the blanket had ended up tucked around them.

Normally, CQ would have brought Geno downstairs and had breakfast with him by now. She probably hadn’t wanted to risk waking Fresh up, for the same reason she had been letting him sleep in. Still, at this hour, it felt odd not to have seen her yet. Was she still in bed?

Fresh sat next to Geno and grabbed his shoulder. “Rise an’ shine, sleepyhead.” Funny that Fresh should wake him while his own head tried to drag him back to sleep, but he thought back to what his brother had said about being tired of sleeping.

It took a while, but Geno stirred.

“Momma…?”

“Guess again, bro.”

Geno smiled and peered at him. “Uncle Asy…?”

Fresh snorted. “Brah!”

“I, I give up. Wh-who are you?”

“Jus’ some fresh dude who’s all up gonna make ya some breakfast!”

“My butler?”

Fresh spat laughter. “Somethin’ like dat.” He brought Geno’s wheelchair over and bowed. “Have a seat, sir!”

Geno wiggled over, and the amusement trickled out of him. Fresh helped him into the wheelchair. He was so light that Fresh might have been able to carry him downstairs if he tried.

“Hey, ya doin’ great. Baby steps, broski.”

Geno smiled at him, and Fresh pushed him out into the hall.

“Th-thanks, Fresh.”

“No problem.” He glanced toward CQ’s door. She was probably just sleeping in. He shook his head and continued to the stairs. “So, whatcha wanna eat?”

The wheelchair lurched down the steps, dragging Fresh forward. He pressed his feet down, misstepped, fell, and the wheelchair jerked out of his hands. He caught the handrail. Thrown from his wheelchair, Geno tumbled down the stairs. The chair crashed into him. He hit the floor, and something snapped.

Fresh’s soul kept falling. He blundered down the stairs, toppling near the bottom, and slammed into the floor. Pushing himself up, he scrambled toward Geno.

“No—no, no—”

Geno sprawled there, motionless. Fresh clutched him but didn’t dare turn him onto his back. Blood spilled down his skull. Fresh screamed his name, but Geno remained limp.

His mother appeared beside him, crying out, but he didn’t understand. He barely heard her over his own screams. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t look away. Half of Geno’s skull was shining red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings:  
> Substance Abuse  
> Mentions of Suicide  
> Blood


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the support so far! <3
> 
> 3/10/18 edit: And more changes.
> 
> Content warnings can be found in the End Notes.

“I’m sorry,” said Fresh for the tenth, or thirtieth, or maybe hundredth time.

His mother had long since stopped telling him not to apologize. It must have been torture, sitting in this hospital waiting room, holding his limp and shaking body close, letting his sweaty, sniffling face dig into her shoulder. Her forgiveness had to be an act. Nothing else made sense. How could anyone love a disgusting… _thing_ like him? She pretended, because mothers were supposed to love their children no matter what. It was good of her to try, but he wished she would be honest, shove him away, scream at him, say all the things she must be thinking: that it was his fault Error was dead, his fault Geno was in surgery, and if Geno didn’t make it, Fresh as good as killed both his brothers. If only she would tell him that she wished he was (dead) in surgery instead; it wouldn’t hurt to hear, since that was his wish, too.

Maybe it was selfish of him, wanting to be unconscious when really, he deserved every second of this torment. Fine—let him suffer. Just please…please let Geno live. Even if Fresh had lost the right to ever see him again, Geno deserved to live. Or had Fresh ruined even the worth of Geno’s life?

“I’m sorry.”

CQ touched his face, her fingers cold. “Fresh. That’s enough.” She lifted his head and pulled off his blank glasses. “Look at me. _Look at me._ ” Her frown was resolute, but her eyes shone with fear. “This is not your fault. It was an accident.” Which he could have avoided with a little care. “Please, try to stop blaming yourself.”

He tried. Nothing happened. He sniffed, but his nose kept running.

“I’m scared.”

CQ hugged him tight. “Me too.”

The haze that had been thickening in his mind, blurring his surroundings, grew stifling. His head throbbed. His body ached. He hadn’t felt it at first, but he had twisted his ankle with that misstep and banged up his knee and arms when he fell. CQ still hadn’t noticed he was hurt. Or she didn’t care.

“C!” Com’s voice rang out. Footsteps approached, but Fresh didn’t look. He felt faint. “No news yet?”

Anxiety tinged her voice. Of course. Fresh hadn’t hurt only Geno. CQ had called Com and Asy after being sent to this room to wait, and Fresh had heard their reactions through the phone. Com had never sounded so panic-stricken, and Asy seemed to have had a nervous breakdown.

“Fresh?” said Com. He didn’t answer. “He looks sick…”

There was a shaky breath. Ink? Right, of course he had come too. Not for Fresh. The remains of their friendship meant nothing next to Geno.

Their voices sounded muffled. His body sagged. He felt drained, but the throbbing in his skull and the knot in his chest trapped him at the edge of consciousness. He had to stay awake. He had to know Geno would be okay.

If he died…

Several hands held Fresh upright in his seat, pulling his hat, gloves and windbreaker off. A bit of the heat left him. The voices murmured. He heard his name, and soon footsteps hurried off. Someone rummaged in his pack, and Ink’s presence sat at his other side.

How long had Geno been in surgery? How much longer did they have to wait?

A plastic bottle swam before his eye.

“Here, drink some water.”

He hadn’t realized how dry he felt. He touched the bottle, but his hand shook, too weak to hold it. They helped pour some water into his mouth. He wished he had pills to go with it.

He slumped against his mother’s shoulder, and she wrapped an arm around him and rubbed his arm. They waited. Fresh fidgeted under Ink’s gaze. He kept his own eye averted, not that he could focus it on anything. Everything felt so far away. Especially Geno.

The haze in his mind kept growing heavier, weighing his eyes down. Heat clung to his body, burning him, suffocating him.

Figures and muffled voices hovered around him. Hands grabbed him, draping his arms over their shoulders and lifting him to his feet.

No—he had to wait for Geno. He pushed and squirmed, but the figures held him tighter and pulled him along.

“No…no—”

He pressed his heels into the floor. The figures dragged him onward. He tried to shout, but not much sound came out. The voices spoke in soothing tones that only made him struggle harder.

Then the figures paused. Fresh slowly stopped struggling and raised his head. Someone in a white coat stood before them, speaking uncertainly. Fresh dragged his head to each side, peering at the figures holding him. One looked like a nurse, and the other was his mother. She stared at the person in the coat. Fresh finally recognized them and strained to understand what they were saying. A few words drifted through the haze.

“…surgery…success. He’s stable.”

Fresh drew a shuddering breath, and all feeling drained from his chest. The last of his strength seeped away. His knees gave out, and his mother pulled him to her chest, holding him up with a hug.

* * *

 

The next few hours blurred together. The nurses managed to bring Fresh’s fever down a bit while he wondered when he’d get to talk to his brother. Even if Geno didn’t want to see him, Fresh had to make sure he was okay, and apologize. But he had to wait, because he couldn’t risk going near Geno with a fever, no matter what kind of mask or gloves he put on. He didn’t know if he trusted himself enough to ever go near Geno again. It seemed he brought nothing but suffering to everyone around him.

At least Geno was alive. He almost didn’t believe it.

Still flushed and weak, he lay in the hospital bed, coughing and rubbing one of the dressings on his bruised arms. The door opened, and CQ approached.

“How’re you feeling?”

He looked at her. “How’s…Geno?”

She hesitated.

“Hey… Don’t do that.” She grabbed his hand, pulling it away from his dressing.

“Is…is he really…okay?”

CQ smiled, giving his hand a squeeze. “I think he’ll be just fine.”

A chill swept through Fresh.

“Are ya lyin’?”

“What? No. They got to him just in time. They saved his life. I saw for myself, he’s stable.”

“Den…why ya cryin’, Ma?”

She didn’t meet his eye. “I should go. You need rest. Both of you.”

She let him go and turned away, but he grasped her arm. “Ma. Don’t run.” She froze. “How…hurt is he? I heard somethin’ snap—Ma, w-was it his spine? Is he—”

“No! He…broke a few other bones. But he’ll be okay, Fresh.”

He started pushing himself up. CQ held him back down.

“Don’t. You need more rest.”

“Den tell me what’s wrong! I can take it.” He doubted himself. She frowned, apparently doubting him too. “…Please.”

She looked away and held a hand to her mouth. “…Geno’s…”

Fresh stopped breathing. CQ lowered her head.

“He’s in another coma.”

* * *

 

Fresh’s mind seemed to have given up on forming new memories. He couldn’t recall being discharged from the hospital, but he found himself at home, sitting at the bottom of the stairs and gazing at the bloodstain his mother hadn’t managed to remove from the carpet. He didn’t remember eating any of the food she brought to him while he lay in bed, but he saw her carrying half-emptied dishes out of his room. He was sure time had stopped when she told him Geno was comatose again, but there Fresh sat, his fever nearly gone, in the backyard with CQ at his side, watching the sky turn a dusty pink, orange, black. His mind didn’t bother holding on to much of anything. None of it mattered.

He wondered if this had happened to Error. He imagined how he might feel if he had a brother who didn’t care Geno was as good as gone, who smiled and went about his days like everything was normal. Before, it might’ve made him want to punch something, but right now, he felt nothing. Understanding Error after all this made no difference. Anger and guilt were a waste. Time itself meant nothing, so long as Geno wasn’t there to spend it with him. Without his brothers, nothing mattered.

Nothing except his pills.

His anxiety had dulled to vague tension that surged every few hours. His pills relaxed him, but they hadn’t been working as well. He needed more during the day just to numb the pain in his skull, and even more to sleep, yet dreams were worth infinitely more than their price. As quickly as he skimmed through each day, and as early as he nestled under his blanket every night, he never returned to his dreams fast enough. Patiently, they waited for him.

Geno laughed as they encased him in a pile of plush Pokémon, leaving a window for his face to peek through. A cheeky grin brightened Error’s face. He snatched Fresh’s hat and bolted from the room. Fresh and Ink pulled Geno out from his plush cocoon, and Pokémon spilled everywhere. The three of them gripped each other’s hands and chased Error down the hall and stairs. Geno’s hand slipped out of Fresh’s grasp, and Geno fell, tumbling toward Error, banging against the stairs—thump, thump,

Thump, thump.

“Fresh, are you up yet?”

He kept his eyes shut. The door creaked.

“It’s almost noon,” said CQ. His body slackened, but he didn’t move. “Come on. You need to get up.”

He made a sound that meant to convey assent, to make his mother leave, but it came out as a whimper. Her footsteps drew near, and a hand touched his forehead.

“Are you feeling any better?”

He tried to answer. Another whimper escaped. CQ sighed and rubbed his arm.

“You should at least have something to eat. Want me to bring you some breakfast? Or, brunch?”

He cracked his eye open, but the light worsened his headache, so he closed it again.

“I’ll be back soon.”

After the door shut, he tried to go back to sleep. It hurt too much. He sat up, wincing, and grabbed his bottle of meds. He fumbled with the cap, and then tipped the bottle over his palm. Two pills fell out. He shook the bottle. Nothing.

His hands trembled. He had known this was coming. He had seen the bottle emptying, but this was too soon. He had messed up. He was such an idiot.

There was only one thing to do. He swallowed his last pills, snatched his pack off his nightstand, stuffed the bottle and cap inside, and heaved himself out of bed. No, he had to wait. If he spoke too soon, his lie would be obvious. CQ must not suspect him. To make sure the lie convinced her, he had to go all out. So while his body ached, and simply standing sapped his energy, he threw his sheets and pillows off his bed. He jumbled the contents of all his drawers one by one, slamming them shut. He turned all the pockets of his dirty clothes inside out. Panting, he wiped the sweat off his face with his pajama sleeve.

He wanted to forget all this and sleep, but sleep was the reason he had to do this.

Wobbling, he grabbed his pack and left for the stairs. He gripped the handrail, took a few quick, deep breaths, and went down.

“Ma,” he tried to shout. CQ ran over from the kitchen, reaching the bottom of the stairs before he did.

“Fresh, what is it?”

He stopped in front of her. “Ma—I can’t find my meds. I looked everywhere, I, I can’t find ’em—”

He swayed, and CQ grasped his arms, sitting him down on the stairs. “Okay. Relax. Breathe. Where did you last see them?”

“By my bed, b-but I looked all ’round it, dey aren’t dere!”

She seemed to be thinking fast.

“Wait here.” She dashed upstairs.

Fresh dropped his pack and hunched up, holding his head. He hadn’t thought he could get any more disgusting. He knew what his pills were doing to him, and he didn’t even care.

CQ soon returned. “Are you positive they were by your bed?”

“Yeah. I took ’em last night…”

She ran her fingers through her hair, glancing around as if hoping to see his meds on the floor. Fresh stared at the bloodstain and clutched his head tighter.

“Ma. My head hurts.” He willed himself to cry. It didn’t work. “It hurts s-so bad.” This, at least, wasn’t a lie.

She hovered in front of him. “Okay—hang in there. We’ll get some more.”

Everything lurched to a standstill. She paled, realizing she had slipped up and broken their unspoken rule never to use that H-word again. After a pause, looking sick and guilty, she pulled out her phone.

Fresh tried to distract himself with thoughts of his dreams while his mother called the pharmacist. It actually calmed him a bit until CQ’s voice grew frustrated.

“No—I understand. Fine. …Thank you.” She hung up, shaking her head, and dialed another number. Fresh trembled.

After the call with his doctor, CQ told Fresh to get ready. Half an hour later, she drove him to the pharmacy. Every minute in the car was like another nail hammered into his skull. He leaned against the window, eye sockets watering, trying to focus on the milder pain of his seatbelt digging into his neck. A car whipped past them. Fresh’s first thought was that his mother was driving this slowly to torture him, but her grip on the wheel looked tight enough to break it with a single twitch. She glared at the cars in front as though fighting the urge to bulldoze them. Fresh didn’t understand. If she wanted to get him there that quickly, that badly, why didn’t she drive faster? So what if speeding was illegal? So long as she didn’t get caught… This was an emergency, after all.

It struck Fresh how selfish he was, how horribly this pain affected his judgment. He would put not just himself in danger, but also his mother and everyone else on the road, just to get some pills faster? CQ knew better than to tempt fate with her last son in the car, even if he mattered less than Error and Geno, less than the strangers she might hurt in an accident. Misfortune followed him everywhere; his presence alone was probably enough to guarantee a crash if she sped. But that was a ridiculous thought, wasn’t it?

They stopped at a red light, and Fresh imagined them crashing into one of the passing cars. His airbag would likely save him, but what if it didn’t? He imagined his skull cracking against the window. He might not even feel it, since his head was already splitting. He imagined blacking out, no more pain, waking in a drugged stupor at the hospital. That actually sounded pretty nice. And if he didn’t wake up? That wouldn’t be so bad, either. But it wasn’t worth his mother and the people in the other car.

It was only after receiving a new bottle of painkiller and swallowing two of the pills (he would take more once he was alone), only during the drive back home, after the pain let up a bit, that Fresh questioned his earlier imagination. He didn’t want to die, right? Wasn’t he afraid of death? No thought, no sensation… Eternal nothingness. Why did that sound okay?

The Band-Aid under his eye socket felt loose. He pressed his fingers against it. Somewhere deep inside him, he still had hope. Even leaving everyone else out of the equation, he wouldn’t choose death.

Would he?

Living or dying—he couldn’t bring himself to care much either way.

The car stopped in front of the house, and while CQ unbuckled her seatbelt, Fresh only gazed at the bottle of pills in his hands. Neither of them left the car. Neither spoke. Shouts rang out from not too far away, and the wind rustled the leaves of nearby trees. In the distance, children yelled and laughed, and the bouncing of a ball echoed through the streets. Normal sounds. Ones he heard all the time, since before Geno’s first coma. They had never made Fresh feel so strange. So small. The world didn’t care that Error had left it, or that Geno had again been locked in a state where he couldn’t experience it. The world didn’t care whether Fresh stayed or followed his brother out. The world would go on with or without them, and almost no one would notice the difference.

“Fresh.”

He didn’t have the energy to raise his head.

“I think, to be on the safe side, we should keep those in the kitchen.”

“…What?”

“Just to make sure they don’t get lost. We can both keep an eye on them.”

Fresh managed to look at her. “I can… I’ll be more careful.”

“You were careful. You kept them by your bed, right? But they still went missing.”

She watched him closely.

She knew.

No, she couldn’t know. But she suspected him; without proof, though, she couldn’t say anything, just in case she was wrong, because if he were innocent and she accused him of lying, if she showed distrust in him—well, their relationship was rocky enough as it was. So she wanted to monitor his pills, make sure they didn’t deplete faster than they were supposed to. If Fresh were innocent, he would have no reason to argue. So he couldn’t.

He couldn’t keep them in his room. He couldn’t keep taking more than two. She had trapped him, and there was no way out.

“…’Kay.”

His throat and chest tightened, and his eye sockets burned. He unbuckled his seatbelt, climbed out of the car, and strode to the door. CQ followed, and Fresh tried not to fidget as she unlocked it. Inside, he set his meds on the kitchen counter and went upstairs. His mother called after him.

“You still need to eat something—”

The moment he shut his door, a sob escaped him. He clamped a hand over his mouth. Breaths shuddering, he tottered toward his bed, but he didn’t make it. He sank to the floor beside it, leaned against the side, and pulled off his glasses, rubbing his eye sockets.

Stupid. Stupid. _Stupid_.

How had he screwed up so badly? Why did he always screw everything up?

Was there any way to fix this? He couldn’t think of anything. But he couldn’t get by on only two pills every four hours. It wasn’t enough. He needed more. He needed more _now_. His head still hurt, he couldn’t wait four more hours, he couldn’t live like this, he couldn’t—

His hand rubbed too hard against his Band-Aid, pulling it off. No, no—he picked it up and stuck it back on. Carefully, he dried his face with his sleeve. The tears kept coming. It was so hard to breathe, so hard to contain his sobs. Quiet, shut up, or his mother might hear. He rummaged in his pack for tissues. He knew he had some in there. He was always prepared for anything. Not for this. Not for his own stupid mistakes, for losing the one thing that still mattered.

Something in his pack rattled, and he paused. His hand found the source and pulled it out. His sleeping pills. He had forgotten about them.

…They didn’t work as well as his painkillers, and they wouldn’t help with the pain or the cravings, but if he took more of them, they might be enough to let him sleep. They were better than nothing. As long as he could sleep every night, he was willing to try to bear the pain throughout each day. He took a deep breath and returned the sleeping pills to his pack.

His Band-Aid came loose and dangled, half-stuck to his face. He pressed it back in place and held it there. Seconds after lowering his hand, the Band-Aid came loose again. His breathing hitched. It didn’t matter. It was just a useless bandage. He didn’t need it. _He didn’t_.

But his sobs grew harder to control. Why? Why was he crying over something as stupid as a Band-Aid falling off? And not just that. He had cried a lot since Error’s death. Everyone else seemed to be handling things better than him. He was so weak, so…broken. So tired of pulling himself back together, only to fall apart, again and again.

He was so, so tired.

* * *

 

It felt like the last of his sanity hinged on the sleeping pills working. After several hours of lying in bed, fighting his pounding headache and the urge to sneak into the kitchen for extra painkillers, hardly touching the food his mother brought to him, both anticipating and dreading that night, at last, he swallowed a few sleeping pills. They worked.

They actually worked, and that was all he could ask for.

Over the next few days, the same nightmare plagued him. It was a nightmare of pain and exhaustion, of having nothing and no one, of waiting for something that he didn’t completely believe in and never came, until finally, he fell asleep. Error, Geno and Ink were with him again, and together they smiled, and laughed, and played. Sometimes things went wrong, but when he returned the next night, everything was fine…until each morning, when he woke up and the nightmare continued.

His fever should’ve been gone, but the sweating worsened, his nose kept running, and all in all, he felt dry and sicker than ever. But he didn’t care. It seemed like his recent bout of crying had drained his soul, leaving only the dregs of his most primal emotions. Getting out of bed required more strength than he had, so he stayed under his sheets all day, and sometimes he even dozed off for a while. His mother took to sitting in his room a lot. No matter what she said or did, Fresh didn’t get up. She kept bringing him food, and his painkillers. That was her mistake. Keeping his meds downstairs was the only thing that would have made him leave his bed. They were the only thing that tempted him at all.

He needed more of them.

“Hey.” His mother shifted in the chair she had left beside his bed. “I was going to visit Geno today. Want to come with me?”

Oh. He still hadn’t seen Geno since before his surgery. Did he want to? All he would find was tubes going into his broken body. Nothing that would make Fresh feel any better.

What was the point of going? Not like Geno even knew when he had visitors.

Fresh stared at the wall. He really didn’t care anymore. They were right back where they started. Only this time, Error wasn’t here to glare at him, and Ink wasn’t here to keep him company. That was fine. He didn’t want company. He’d rather stay and crave his painkillers in silence.

Realizing CQ was waiting for an answer, he said, “No.”

She looked like she wanted to insist he come, but she pulled out her phone.

“Okay. I’ll see if Asy can come over.”

She still wanted someone to babysit him. Fresh supposed she had good reasons not to trust him alone. She might have thought, as a plus, Asy could help Fresh again. Either way, it must’ve been a relief to hand such a burden over to someone else for a bit. While she called, he pulled his Band-Aid from his pocket. He examined it absently and thought of all the pain and inconvenience he had caused everyone throughout his life. They were such good people to put up with him, to try to help him. Why go to so much effort for someone who didn’t care…who didn’t even try to care?

After Asy arrived and spoke with CQ downstairs, she left, and Asy knocked on Fresh’s door. Not getting a response, he entered.

“All right, kiddo. Up ya get.”

He bent over Fresh. Fresh only looked at him, holding the Band-Aid close to his chest.

“C’mon. Sometimes it helps to do something. All I ask is you come outside with me. Some fresh air and sunlight will do you good.” He smiled and bounced Fresh’s mattress. “At the very least, it’ll clear your head a bit. I promise.”

Fresh looked away. He didn’t have it in him to move. So much for staying strong, and trying his best, and making Asy proud.

“I’m not taking no for an answer.” Asy yanked Fresh’s sheets off and lifted him into a sitting position. Pain shot through him; he resisted feebly. Asy made sure he was steady before glancing around and stepping back to grab Fresh’s shoes. Fresh let himself fall over, his head hitting the pillow with a _fwump_.

“Oh no you don’t!”

Asy lifted him again, gave him a mock stern look, and slid Fresh’s feet into his shoes. Then he grabbed his hat and sunglasses from the nightstand and stuck them on Fresh, with the brim of the hat over his eyes.

“You’re gonna want to wear these. Okay! Let’s go!”

He draped Fresh’s arm over his shoulders and pulled him to his feet. Fresh’s legs wobbled, but Asy held him up. His body ached. A crawling sensation crept over him as it often had these past few days. Asy took a step toward the door, and slowly, Fresh did the same. They made their way to the stairs, at which Fresh stopped and planted his feet to the spot. Asy watched him, giving him a moment.

“Do you want to go first?”

Fresh didn’t trust his ability to walk on his own just yet, not with how weak he felt. Yet he didn’t trust himself to climb down the stairs with someone else. What if he stumbled and dragged Asy down with him?

He gave a small nod, and Asy released him. Legs shaking harder, Fresh grasped the handrail.

“Take your time, and sit down if you need to,” said Asy.

It would be so easy to sit right there and not get up, but Fresh took a step down. And another. In a minute, he reached the bottom. Asy was right behind him. Beaming, he offered Fresh his arm.

Wow. Asy was good at pretending.

Fresh looked away and continued to the front door, finding it easier to keep moving now that he had gotten started. His body still hurt, though.

He needed more painkillers.

Asy opened the door, and sunlight pierced Fresh’s eye socket. He squinted and ducked his head. His hat and sunglasses helped, but not much. Asy guided him out, and the wind felt almost like a shove. It howled faintly, nipping at his face. The trees swayed. How hadn’t he heard this from inside? Asy shut the door and sat on the doorstep. Fresh hesitated, and then sat next to him.

“Pretty windy, huh?” said Asy. “But it’s kind of nice, in a way, isn’t it?”

Well, it woke him up a little more. He kept his head down, shielding his eye from the sunlight.

“Hey… What’ve you got there?”

Fresh glanced at Asy, then at his own fist in his lap. He uncurled his fingers to reveal the slightly crumpled Band-Aid.

“Oh! You still have it?” He sounded pleasantly surprised. “You know, Fresh—” The Band-Aid blew out of his hand; soul jumping, he lunged at it, but the wind swept it out of reach, carrying it off.

Asy leapt to his feet and sprinted across the yard, through the gate, chasing the bandage down the street. Frozen in place, Fresh peered after him. His eye socket watered, and he shut it. It was too bright. But what was Asy doing? That bandage wasn’t important. It didn’t matter—

A car zoomed by. Toward Asy. Asy was in the street.

For one second, everything stopped.

Fresh opened his eye. Asy was gone. Wait, he was in a yard across the street. A numb buzzing sensation washing over him, Fresh curled in on himself.

What…just happened? Did Asy almost die? Had Fresh grown paranoid?

Nothing was supposed to matter except his pills. He shouldn’t care if Asy died. Fresh _didn’t_ care. He didn’t care about anyone. It was better this way. The less he cared about, the less he had to lose. All he had left was pills. He didn’t have Asy anymore. He didn’t have his mother. Or Geno. Or Ink, or Com, or Error. He had already lost them all. Lost them, or let them go.

The gate creaked, and footsteps approached.

“I got it,” panted Asy. “…Fresh?”

Shivering, he raised his head. “Why? It…doesn’t matter. It’s just. A stupid Band-Aid.”

Asy lowered himself onto the step and offered the Band-Aid. It fluttered in his grip.

“I think it’s more than that.”

Fresh drew a shaky breath.

“Why?”

Asy smiled. “Because it’s magic.” Fresh’s brow furrowed. “It makes you feel better, doesn’t it?”

That sounded ridiculous, but he couldn’t deny that it had helped.

“…Not anymore.”

Asy lowered the Band-Aid. Fresh held himself, watching the grass ripple in the wind.

“Then why didn’t you throw it away?” asked Asy. Fresh stayed silent. “It still means something to you. Right?”

“I don’t need it.”

The wind howled louder. Fresh wanted to go back to his bed, but not enough to make his body move. Asy fiddled with the Band-Aid, smoothing it out.

“I know it doesn’t feel like it. But things are going to get better, Fresh. I promise.”

Fresh wobbled. He smiled; it made his face hurt even more. “Yo, isn’t it kinda unrad ta make empty promises?”

Asy stopped. “…I’m not…”

“If ya ain’t lyin’ ta me, ya lyin’ ta yaself.”

After several seconds, Fresh wondered if Asy had given up on talking to him.

“Geno’s strong,” said Asy. Fresh’s smile faded. “He’s pulled through this before, and he’ll do it again.” Asy’s optimism was almost sickening. Miracles never struck the same place twice. “And you—you’re strong too. Even if you don’t believe me… I know you can get through this. We all will. Together.”

Fresh’s fingers dug into his sleeves. “What’s dat even mean? Get through dis? Do we jus’…forget everything an’ move on?”

“No. Of course not.”

“How can anything ever be okay if we remember?”

“By not letting our pasts define us. People learn from their experiences… We change. And we can make the choice to change our own lives. It’s not always easy, and sometimes we need help. But we’re here for you. So please.” Asy held out the Band-Aid again, his gaze not leaving Fresh’s face. “Don’t give up. Because we’ll never give up on you.”

Fresh’s chest burned. He forced his voice out, and it cracked. “I…I can’t…”

“We can.”

Fresh looked away. Why did Asy’s words hurt? They weren’t true. He couldn’t just choose to make things better, and no one could help him. The only way to ease the pain was to forget it, and the only way to forget was to cease conscious thought, to sleep.

“I promise,” said Asy. “This won’t last forever. Let’s keep fighting.”

Trying only made it hurt more. He had wasted so much energy, and things had gotten worse. All they ever did was get worse. There was nothing to fight for.

“I _can’t_.”

“I know it’s hard. But you can’t give up, Fresh. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. And it’ll be full of so many great things.”

Fresh tried to imagine himself in the future, with Geno, Ink, CQ, Com and Asy, all of them happy. It seemed impossible. Even if Asy was right, and Geno got better… Even if Fresh somehow hadn’t ruined all chances of a future like that… It felt impossibly far out of reach.

“I…” He swallowed. “…I’m so tired.”

“I know. But it’s worth the effort. You’re worth the effort.”

Asy held the Band-Aid right beside Fresh’s hand. Glancing at Asy’s smile, trembling, Fresh grabbed the Band-Aid. Asy made sure he had a firm grip before letting go and hugging him. Fresh leaned against him, soaking up his warmth and feeling like his own body had turned to mush. They stayed that way for a minute or two before Asy spoke.

“Feel better now?”

“…I dunno.”

Asy drew back, and Fresh wobbled trying to hold himself upright. Asy pulled out his box of Band-Aids and stuck a green one on the crack under Fresh’s eye.

“How about now?”

“I…” Fresh began. With an eager grin, Asy stuck a red Band-Aid on one of Fresh’s scars.

“And now?”

A smile started growing on his face. “Um…”

“What’s that? You want more?”

“Wha? I’m—”

He stuck a cyan one on another scar. “Boop!”

“Uncle Asy!”

“Aha! Looking fresh, li’l broski!”

Asy clapped him on the back and put his box away. With a shiver, Fresh looked at the Band-Aid in his hands. He opened his mouth to thank Asy, but—

“Jeez, it’s gotten cold. Let’s head back inside.”

“Ah…” Fresh nodded and pocketed the Band-Aid. Asy helped him up.

The house felt dark, warm, and quiet after being outside. Asy made hot chocolate and topped it with plenty of marshmallows; the two of them nestled under blankets on the couch, sipping from their mugs. Fresh tried not to look at the picture in the corner, instead focusing on the muffled howling of the wind, the flavor and heat filling him up with every swallow, and the soul-scraping itch for his painkillers.

They were right there, in the kitchen.

So close.

Asy didn’t know Fresh had taken some only a while before CQ left. What if he told Asy it was time for his pills? But CQ would notice if they ran out even half a day early. Fresh couldn’t get away with sneaking any extra. He had told himself this already, over and over and over…

Then again, she wouldn’t notice for quite a while.

Was it worth it? Yes. Yes, a thousand times yes. He had never expected to keep this secret forever, and his mother as good as knew already. He could regret the decision later, but right now—why even fight it?

Asy nudged Fresh’s arm. “Hey kiddo, you feel up to doing anything? We could watch a movie, or play a game. Or just sit and read?”

Fresh squeezed his mug. For reasons he didn’t understand, Asy believed in him. He kept trying to convince Fresh there was hope, that he had the strength to turn his life around, and just like that, Fresh wanted to throw that trust and effort away.

“…Fresh?”

He squirmed and took a gulp of hot chocolate. Then he leaned against Asy, shutting his eyes.

“Can we jus’ sit here?”

Asy’s arm wrapped around him. “Of course.”

There. Now he couldn’t get up for pills, no matter how desperately he wanted to. Well… He could. But he wouldn’t. He just had to hold out until his mother returned.

Sitting had never exhausted him more. Long before CQ strode in, whatever emotions he had felt during Asy’s visit had seeped out of him. He dragged his eye up to meet his mother’s. While surprised to find Fresh downstairs and covered in Band-Aids, a glance at and greeting from Asy reassured her, and she wasted no time hitting them with a surprise of her own.

“Listen—Geno’s started to wake up!”

The news hung in the air. Asy teared up, and a smile spread across his face, wider and wider.

“Already? Hahaha! See, Fresh? What did I tell—”

He and CQ paused at the look on Fresh’s face. This didn’t feel…real. He waited for the joy or relief to kick in, or even guilt. Maybe dread at still having to apologize to Geno? …Any emotion? He didn’t want to see Geno any more or less than before. He just felt sick and tense and tired, with that longing for painkillers. What was wrong with him?

“What’s wrong?” asked CQ.

Asy squeezed him gently. “You know he won’t be mad at you.”

“Mmh,” said Fresh.

“I bet he’ll want to see you as soon as possible,” said CQ. “He might be conscious enough to talk to in a day or two, maybe not for long, but do you want to try tomorrow?”

“Mmh.”

She and Asy exchanged looks. CQ sat at Fresh’s other side and tried to talk to him. He didn’t know how to tell her he didn’t care about seeing his brother, so he ignored her, letting his exhaustion show as clearly as possible. Maybe they would accept it as an excuse and let him rest.

Half an hour later, he was back in his room, lying in bed. For the rest of the day, his thoughts of Geno came with no feelings attached. Only his dream rekindled emotions in him; they burned hotter as the dream mutated into a nightmare and jolted him awake. These emotions too fizzled out, but even before that, he was bothered that the nightmare disrupted his sleep rather than because it ended in Geno’s death.

* * *

 

When CQ asked again the next day, Fresh agreed to visit Geno. He hoped that seeing him might evoke some kind of emotion. He was starting to wonder if he had some sort of emotional leak in his soul, and while it didn’t exactly worry him, he wanted to assure himself that he wasn’t losing all capacity to feel.

They entered Geno’s room to find him unconscious, his head swathed in bandages, his left arm in a cast, tubes sticking out of his right arm and mouth. The closer Fresh got, the clearer the damage became. Smaller bandages spotted his arm and face. Fresh got the sense he wasn’t supposed to be here. It was one of the many things he felt during Error’s funeral, but now, he didn’t feel anything else.

Until his gaze drifted to the IV drip and he had the urge to pipe Geno’s medications into his own arm. It looked so dang nice to lie there and let others pump him full of meds, like some sort of royal treatment. CQ, however, seemed heartbroken just looking at Geno.

Fresh always had been weird. A soulless freak. Maybe that had never changed, and never would: a fact of life.

Figuring the view from the window would serve as a better distraction from his cravings, he wandered over to the couch in front of the window and sat twisted in the seat, arms resting on the back. CQ pulled herself away from Geno and sat next to Fresh.

“…What’s on your mind?” she asked.

Fresh stayed silent, and she didn’t press him for an answer, leaving him to contemplate the concrete far below.

While they waited for Geno, several people passed through Fresh’s view: old people, young people, parents with their children. Someone hobbled by on crutches. One kid had their arm in a sling. Fresh felt so far away from these strangers. They all came here because they or someone they loved was sick or hurt, while he was here on the off chance that the brother he nearly killed might make him feel something. Actually… Maybe he _was_ sick. Maybe his soul was defective. Either way, he wouldn’t leave this hospital healed or fixed like these passersby. Sickness and injury were just bumps in the road for them. They had lives to return to, and Fresh had a whole lot of nothing. He couldn’t be the only one who felt this…dead. But it sure felt that way.

Asy had mentioned some great future ahead of him, but he hadn’t explained how to get there. How was he supposed to change nothing into happiness? Did Asy even know? Or was he holding on to blind hope?

“Geno,” said CQ.

Fresh glanced over as she approached the bed. His socket half-closed, Geno’s eyelight followed her. She spoke to him softly, holding his hand, but he didn’t so much as blink in response until she said Fresh’s name. Geno turned his head toward him. Fresh faced his brother, but stayed in his seat.

“I’m sorry.” The words sounded empty. Fresh didn’t even believe them himself. Before, he had needed so badly to apologize, to make sure Geno understood how sorry he was, but it looked like he had missed his chance.

Geno gazed at him. That sense of not belonging there grew. He wanted to leave, but Geno had just woken up. His mother watched him, perhaps waiting for him to say something more. He had no words, and neither did Geno. So, settling back on the couch, he let all his senses unfocus and wondered how it was possible to stop caring about the people he loved.

Had he ever truly loved them in the first place? Did it matter? This was what he wanted, why he had let them go. Had he? Did he really choose to stop caring? Or had that connection to his family slipped away on its own? He didn’t feel them anymore. They were little more than strangers. So far away.

It was cold here, by himself.

But it was a safe kind of cold.

CQ’s face swam into focus. She looked strained, holding his glasses and searching his eye socket. She couldn’t seem to find anything.

* * *

 

He lay in the dark, in the middle of the night, trying to remember his dream. It was gone. Had he even dreamed at all? Something must have woken him up. This headache? This consuming need for painkillers?

Oh, right. He had no hope of sleeping through the night without pills, and he hadn’t been able to take them with his mother lingering in his room. She was still here, too, slumped in the chair with her head and arms resting on the bed beside him. It looked uncomfortable, but she was asleep. He shifted. She didn’t stir. Nothing was stopping him from sneaking some painkillers.

Dragging himself out of bed, he thought of Asy, but no guilt held him back this time. He crept downstairs, into the kitchen. His meds sat on the counter. He unscrewed the cap and shook some pills into his palm.

He hadn’t even resisted for two days. Asy was naïve to trust him. Fresh was weak…but maybe that was okay. He swallowed the pills and returned to his bed.

His pain and tension melted away, and warmth enfolded him, filling the hole in his chest with something soft, and true, and good. Nothing in this world felt more beautiful.

By morning, it was gone. After turning down another visit with Geno, Fresh spent a few nauseated hours under Asy’s watch, tuning out whatever meaningless pep talk he tried to give him. Asy grew quiet and remained that way until CQ’s return.

At night, Fresh snuck more pills. CQ stayed home all day but seemed far too tired and distracted to notice anything amiss with his meds.

The third night, he took more, only to wake before dawn, his insides churning and swelling. It lurched up his throat. He scrambled out of bed and staggered to the bathroom. Slamming the toilet seat up, he dropped to his knees; vomit gushed out, thick and sour, hitting the water with a long, heavy splash. He gagged, but it kept coming in bursts, burning his throat and coating the inside of his mouth. He clutched the toilet bowl and heaved until the last trickle thinned out into nothing. Panting, he shut his eyes, waiting to make sure it was over. His mouth dripped. He spat out what he could and lowered the seat and lid. With a shaky hand, he flushed the toilet, then scooted away and slumped against the wall. The sour taste clung to his tongue.

He couldn’t imagine the noise not waking his mother, but she didn’t come to check on him. Still queasy, he held himself, listening to his own ragged breathing.

Maybe this wasn’t okay after all.

Of course it wasn’t. But he didn’t know how to be anything else. He needed this.

Soon, a glow rose to the window. Fresh dragged himself to his feet. He washed his face and hands at the sink and rinsed out his mouth. Raising his head, the mirror caught his eye. His dim eyelight fixed on his reflection’s empty socket, then drifted, drawn to the Band-Aids on his face.

_“Because it’s magic. It makes you feel better, doesn’t it?”_

Feel better…?

…Feel…

Haha.

* * *

 

Fresh wanted to spend the afternoon alone, so when CQ decided to visit Geno, he asked her not to call Asy or Com.

“I don’t…want to leave you here alone,” she said.

Fresh sat up in his bed and fished his phone out of his pack. “Text me all ya like,” he said, voice monotone. “I’ll reply.” She frowned at him. “Or call if ya wanna hear my voice.”

“I…”

“I’ll be right here when ya get back. Promise.” She continued to hesitate. “It’s jus’ for a few hours.”

In the end, she took this chance on him. He turned his phone on, finding no new messages from Ink but receiving over twenty from CQ while she was gone. True to his word, he answered every time, and she returned to find him propped against his pillows, fiddling with his purple Band-Aid.

At two a.m., he crept into the kitchen. His hands tightened around his bottle of meds. He didn’t open it. How could he keep doing this? How could he not? Gritting his teeth, rocking back and forth, he turned the cap. He had taken too many before. He just had to be more careful. Even if he did get sick again, it was worth it.

_“But it’s worth the effort.”_

He fidgeted, clasped a hand over his mouth, and slammed the bottle down. He had to try. He wasn’t trying hard enough. But it hurt… And these pills felt so good.

His breaths grew heavy. He stepped away, pressing his hands over his eye sockets. He had to be better than this. How? _How?_ If someone could just point him in the right direction…

He sank to the floor and curled up against a cabinet. He didn’t want to ask for help, but he knew he needed it. Slowly, he pulled his phone from his pack and called Asy.

Ring…

It was so late. Would he even pick up?

Ring…

Fresh was an idiot. He should’ve waited until morning.

Ring…

He was enough of a nuisance without disrupting Asy’s sleep. God, what was he doing? Hang up—

“Hello…?”

His breath shuddered. He stared at the floor.

“Who is this?” Asy sounded groggy, with a trace of wariness.

Fresh’s voice failed him. He should hang up and let Asy sleep.

“…Fresh?”

He held his breath. Asy’s voice sharpened, alert.

“What is it? Did something happen?”

“N…no.”

“Do you need something?”

Fresh struggled to find the words. Why didn’t he think this through? “I… What am I s’posed ta do?”

Silence answered him.

“How do I change all dis?” …Asy didn’t know either, did he? “I’m sorry, I…”

“No,” said Asy. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” He was wrong about that. “But, you’ve already taken the first step. Choosing to make a change. Figuring out how to go about it… There’s only so much you can do about the things around you. What you can change, and what you should focus on, is yourself, and the way you look at the world. I think the best place to start is to talk to someone. One of us, or a therapist, whoever you’re most comfortable opening up to.”

Of course. It always came back to talking.

“Sometimes medication can help, too,” said Asy. “I don’t think it’ll be enough on its own, but… You could ask your doctor about it.”

Talking, and pills. Fresh knew which one he always turned to. It seemed he had made the wrong choice, and everyone else knew better than him.

Was that all he had to do? Talk? It had hurt too much before, but now… Without emotions holding him back, could he do it? Could he get better?

Was there such thing as “better” without emotions? What was the point if he couldn’t feel joy, or love? What was the point of “recovery” if he turned back into the _thing_ that got his brother killed? But the alternative was suffocating under all those emotions he had finally escaped.

“Fresh?”

He curled into a tighter ball. “…Okay.”

Emotions were just another obstacle on the path to recovery. A shark-infested ocean he had to swim through, perhaps, but this was never going to be easy. One step at a time.

“For now, you should get some sleep,” said Asy. “You can tackle this in the morning, all right?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, kiddo.” Asy’s voice softened. “Thank you for calling me about this. You talk to me anytime you need to, okay? I’m always here to help.”

“Mmh.”

“You can do this, Fresh. You’re so strong. I’m proud of you.”

“…’Night.”

“Goodnight.”

Fresh ended the call, put his phone away, and rose to his feet. He looked at his painkillers. In that moment, not even recovery mattered. He just wanted to feel good. This wouldn’t stop until he felt again. That guilt had been the only thing strong enough to hold him back, if only for a while.

How could anyone help someone who put pills above their own well-being? To recover, he had to prioritize recovery. He had to care. So maybe bringing his emotions back was a better next step. If that were even possible.

Tackle it in the morning.

He took some painkillers—only three this time—and went to bed.

Fresh woke early and remained huddled under his blanket, taking an hour or two to summon up the focus he needed. He considered what might work. The last time he had felt something…was with Asy, right? He had even made Fresh smile. It might not have been love, but he had felt some sort of connection with Asy. While he hadn’t felt it since then…it was worth a try.

Fresh asked his mother if he could spend some time with Asy. Looking hopeful, she called him; while she took the opportunity to visit Geno, Fresh and Asy took a walk around the block. The wind blew almost as strongly as before.

“How are you feeling?” asked Asy. Fresh shrugged, watching his feet. “…You know, I can’t help you if you aren’t honest with me.”

Right. Talking might still help.

“I don’t really feel anything,” he said slowly. Although it did feel odd to voice this.

Asy glanced at him. “Do you want to?”

As obvious as the answer seemed, Fresh had a hard time replying.

“I need ta.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Fresh’s head hurt. “I. I dunno.”

Asy made a hum of understanding. “Emotions are a lot to handle sometimes… I guess life might be easier without them. But they give it meaning, right? Definitely worth it.”

Fresh raised his head. Clouds filled the sky, but it was still bright.

“I know it’s even harder for you,” said Asy. “Since emotions are still new to you, and…it’s not fair you started feeling the way you did.” Fresh looked away. “I understand wanting a break from all that. You know, maybe that’s why you don’t feel anything right now. Your head might be numbing you to try to protect you from the bad feelings.”

“Like a defense mechanism…?”

“Yeah.” It was a prettier explanation than being broken or soulless, but why did it have to numb the good feelings, too? “When your emotions come back—and I’m sure they will—we’ll do whatever we can to help you with them.”

He kept saying things like that, but Fresh didn’t feel any less alone.

“Do I have ta wait? Can’t I make ’em come back faster?”

“Oh. Maybe,” said Asy. “Let’s give it a try. Got any ideas how?”

“I’m…kinda tryin’ right now. I thought, since ya made me feel stuff before, maybe…ya could help again…”

Asy paused. “O-oh. Ahaha…” He rubbed the back of his head, smiling. “I’m glad I could help. So…”

“It’s not workin’.”

Asy lowered his hand. “…Hmm…”

They turned the corner, nearing the spot where Geno had…

The silence grew uncomfortable. Fresh slowed to a stop. Asy kept walking for a few seconds before looking back and stopping too.

“I’m tired,” said Fresh. “Can we go back?”

“Sure.”

They returned to the house, and Fresh sat on the couch. Asy hovered nearby.

“Maybe a good movie can make you feel something?”

Fresh’s brow scrunched up. If a movie made him feel when a “loved” one couldn’t, that’d be pretty messed up, but he didn’t have any better ideas. “ ’Kay.”

“Why don’t you pick one out while I make some popcorn?”

His whole body turned cold and tensed up.

“No.”

“No…?”

“Don’t make anything.”

Asy sat next to him. “All right. No popcorn…”

Fresh went to look through their movies. Right there. At the first sign of emotion, he ran. But it wasn’t quite emotion; he just felt sick and…uncomfortable. He didn’t need that.

…No, it was definitely a tinge of emotion. Because of popcorn. That was just pathetic. Even so, wasn’t this his chance? He should embrace the popcorn. Eat a bucket of it. Maybe break down in front of Asy. Just like he wanted.

He really didn’t. All he wanted was to be happy, but of course, emotions weren’t pick-and-choose. So why hesitate?

“You sure you don’t want anything?” asked Asy.

Fresh pulled a movie from the shelf and turned to him. “I’m not hungry.”

Asy sighed. He must’ve seen what Fresh was doing, and was disappointed in him.

“That’s fine,” said Asy. “As long as you eat something later.”

Fresh put the movie on and sat next to Asy. When the menu screen for Pixar’s _Inside Out_ popped up, Asy seemed taken aback.

“This is quite the, uh…relevant choice.”

If Fresh had to guess, its relevance was precisely why it made him feel more disconnected. It might have helped if he’d been able to focus better, but as he was, it turned out to be a pretty poor choice for the occasion. It left him imagining that the “Headquarters” in his mind would be a disaster area.

After CQ’s return, Asy left with a confident goodbye, but Fresh got the sense he was hiding his discouragement.

Fresh took some painkillers that night and woke early again, this time to rain drumming against his window. Asy had failed, but his mother had to make him feel something. He shuffled to her bedroom. Remembering the time, he stopped his fist an inch from the door, faltered, and sat beside it. It took far longer than he thought it would for her to come out.

She spotted him and froze. “Fresh?”

He pulled himself up, head drooping with exhaustion. What was he supposed to say? What could she do for him that Asy couldn’t? This was useless.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

Finding himself unable to say a word, he knew he’d given up without even trying. He swayed forward, and she hugged him. His arms hung limp at his sides.

“Please,” she said. “Talk to me. Let me help you.”

There was only one option left, wasn’t there? He would need a lot of strength and time alone to try. He drew back, and she let him go, her eyes begging him. He turned away.

“ _Fresh!_ ”

“Forget it,” he said. “It’s nothing.”

She walked around him, standing in his way. “It is not nothing!”

“It’s stupid.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“I was gonna ask…” He clenched the front of his shirt. “If ya could buy some new clothes for me…”

“…What?”

“Somethin’ less colorful. All my clothes feel…wrong, after…” This part was true. It was one of the reasons he hadn’t changed his clothes since the day he got a new bottle of painkillers. The other reasons, apathy and weariness, had also led to him not showering. How disgusting.

“They’re not wrong,” said CQ. “You don’t have to wear dark clothes just because…”

“I want to.” That neon freak wasn’t here anymore, and Fresh didn’t want to wear its clothes.

CQ hesitated. “You could always ask Ink to change their colors…”

Fresh looked at her. That was all it took.

“Okay. I can get you a few new things…” He kept staring. “…What, right now?”

“Please.”

“I… Okay. Do you have your phone?” He nodded. “Then I’ll be back soon. Eat some breakfast, all right?” She hugged him and kissed his forehead. “I love you.”

She fetched her umbrella and purse and left. Deepening his breathing, Fresh sat across from Error’s door and listened to the rain and howling wind.

This wasn’t so bad. He just needed a minute.

Ten minutes.

Twenty.

His mother texted him, and he replied. Time was running out. He stood up and grabbed the doorknob.

Another minute.

He opened the door.

The room hadn’t been touched since his dust was removed. His broken furniture and belongings littered the floor, and his nightstand still stood beneath the ceiling fan.

Fresh felt faint. Realizing he wasn’t breathing, he forced a breath and stepped inside. The room was dark, but he didn’t turn the light on.

The starry walls were beautiful, and yet, they looked so lonely.

He sank to his knees in front of the nightstand. His hands pressed against the carpet.

Something hard grew deep in his chest. It didn’t…hurt, exactly. His eye swept over the room. He reached over and pulled one of Error’s jackets toward him. Black and blue. Fresh buried his fingers in the fabric and held it close. The hardness turned heavy. He couldn’t let this slip away.

Gathering himself, he took off his windbreaker and put on Error’s jacket. It was a little small on him, but not tight. Just cold. Everything in this room was cold. He lay down and curled up.

Was this really the right decision? If he brought all that pain back, and it stayed with him, he would have to live with it—maybe for years, possibly the rest of his life. He would have to put his faith in the unknown, in that “great future” that may not exist. Even if his family helped him, they might fail or give up. He might lose them. He couldn’t make it alone. Error had lasted six years. How long would Fresh last?

His phone pinged. He opened his eyes and grasped his chest. It ached, but he might still have time to turn back.

Another ping. He pushed himself up and fumbled his phone from his windbreaker’s pocket. After texting CQ back, he grabbed his windbreaker and left the room. As he passed his door, he dropped his windbreaker in front of it and answered another text. She was heading home. Downstairs, he turned his phone off, slid it into his pack, and approached Error’s photograph.

Everyone in it had such wide smiles. Even Fresh’s looked (almost) convincing. He couldn’t remember the last time Error had looked that happy. Was it when this picture had been taken, about six years ago? It certainly hadn’t been after Geno’s coma.

With the utmost care, Fresh lifted the picture, taking in Error’s image through the dust: his relaxed bearing; the warm, blue tinge on his face; the shine of his eyelights. Fresh’s hands shook. His chest tightened. The strength left his legs, and once again, he sat on the floor, leaning against the wall. He hugged the picture to his chest.

He would give anything to go back. Anything. No possible future meant a thing without Error.

* * *

 

CQ had stridden to his side, dropping the bag of clothes. Barely hearing her words, he had begged her to leave him alone, until finally, she gave in and retreated, staying close by. Fresh allowed himself ten more minutes with Error before setting his picture back and bringing the bag of clothes to his own room. He didn’t acknowledge his mother’s presence for the rest of the day, refusing to eat the food she brought him or even take his pills until she left the room. He wasn’t sure why. Just that he was a horrible son.

He snuck his extra painkillers, and without even taking his hat or glasses off before bed, slept in past noon. CQ woke him, but he kept his eyes shut.

“You don’t have to talk to me,” she said. “But please, come with me and talk to Geno. He wants to see you.”

Fresh didn’t move. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

“Please don’t make me have to tell him you don’t want to visit him. Not again.”

He clenched his sheets. He thought of Geno, lying there and waiting for his brother. Fresh wanted to run to him and hug him and make him feel like everything would be all right. But if Fresh couldn’t get better, it would never be more than a lie.

He was calmer than yesterday, his head clearer, and he knew he had to give the future a real chance. He had to push aside his fears and doubts and try everything: and that included accepting help. If he never tried, he’d never know. It would be hard. But everyone else knew better than him, so he was safer in their hands than his own.

Asy had suggested he start by talking to someone. For whatever reason, Fresh had trouble talking to his mother. Asy… The thought of seeing him after their last meeting made Fresh uncomfortable. Asy’s unrelenting show of confidence had started to wear him out. It felt fake.

“Fresh. Please,” said CQ.

Geno. He wanted to see Geno, but unloading his problems onto him would do more harm than good. Geno wasn’t in the position to help. If possible, Fresh wanted to have good news to share during the visit. Something more than, “I’m going to try.” His word meant nothing. He had to show Geno he was making progress, to leave less room for worry.

“Tomorrow,” said Fresh. “I’ll visit him tomorrow.”

He opened his eyes. CQ’s eyes shone with tears.

“Okay.” She pulled out her phone.

“Don’t,” said Fresh.

“I’m not leaving you here by yourself again.”

“I don’t want him ta come.”

“You don’t have to talk to him. I just want someone here with you.”

“No!”

“…It’s either Asy or Com. Who would you prefer?”

He fell silent. If he couldn’t talk to his mother, Asy, or Geno…

“…Aunt Com.”

CQ watched him for a moment, and then called her. Fresh felt cold again.

Ink had been waiting for him, too. How long had it been since Fresh spoke to him, or heard from him? Was he okay? He wasn’t. He was alone.

CQ lowered her phone. “Is it okay if Ink comes over, too?”

Fresh shrunk into himself. His mother sighed and held the phone to her ear. “I guess that’s not gonna work… Never mind. I’ll figure something else out. Talk to you later, Com.”

She hung up and rubbed her temple.

“I’m sorry. It’s gotta be Asy.”

She called him, and Fresh didn’t protest. He would just have to ask Asy to leave him alone, and if that didn’t work, maybe lie that he had gotten no sleep and wanted a nap. Well, he always wanted naps. Even though his dreams hadn’t been so pleasant lately.

“Is everything okay?” CQ said into her phone. Worry flickered on her face. “Oh—no, no, I understand. It’s fine. He needs you more right now. …Right—good luck.” She hung up, sitting on the edge of Fresh’s bed. It took her a moment to notice him staring. “His friend is in a bad spot. He needs to be there for him.”

Suddenly, Fresh felt awful, unimportant.

“Looks like you win,” said CQ. “You get the house to yourself for a while. Just…take care of yourself. Eat something. I mean it.” She stood up and gazed at him. “…Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“Stop worryin’ so much…”

She gave him a strained smile. “I’m sorry. I can’t.” She bent down to hug him, but he pulled away, and she faltered. Slowly, she stepped back. “…I love you, Fresh.”

She waited, and without getting a reply, left. Fresh pulled Error’s jacket tighter around himself.

The longer he lay there, the emptier his room felt. He was alone.

They were alone.

He had to try everything.

Fresh took his phone out and checked the last text Ink had sent him: _I’m sorry. Just please let me know you’re ok_

He typed out a message and hit send.

_Can you come over? I want to talk._

Fifteen seconds later, Ink replied: _On my way_

No turning back.

In a few minutes, it started to rain. Before Fresh was ready, there was a knock on the front door. His breathing quickened.

“Fresh?” Ink’s voice called.

Fresh pushed his blanket off and made his way downstairs. Ink knocked louder. Keeping his head low, Fresh unlocked the door and opened it.

The rain poured down, filling the silence. Fresh shuffled off to get a towel. The door shut behind him. He returned to Ink waiting in the entryway and handed him the towel, glancing at his face just long enough to catch him staring at Error’s jacket the same way CQ had. Fresh walked toward the stairs.

“I…” said Ink. He hurried after Fresh, drying himself off as he went. In his room, Fresh sat on his bed. Ink hesitated and sat in the chair. Neither seemed to know how to start.

An apology would be best.

“I’m sorry,” said Ink. “If it felt like…I took something away from you. Or like I didn’t understand. Because I do. I’ve been having trouble sleeping too. But I still think that this is better than risking your health when there are other options. I’m just…worried about you.” This really wasn’t what Fresh wanted to talk about. “You did find another way to get some sleep, right?” He stayed still, staring at his sheets, hoping he wouldn’t give anything away. “…I miss you. And I want to be here for you.”

The shadows under Ink’s eyes were deeper than Fresh remembered.

“I miss you too,” said Fresh. “I’m…I’m sorry.”

Ink’s breath shook. “I forgive you.”

Fresh turned his head away. He didn’t deserve forgiveness, but…

“Can ya help me?”

“I’ll do whatever I can.”

Fresh tugged at Error’s jacket sleeve. “I wanna try…talkin’ ta someone…”

“Then, I’ll listen.”

Ink sat on the edge of his seat. Fresh didn’t feel comfortable voicing any of his thoughts or feelings, but he had to start somewhere. Nothing to do but be honest, right?

“I dunno where ta start…”

Ink fidgeted. “Well… How do you feel right now?”

“Tired.” That much was obvious. “And…scared. I. I don’t wanna do dis. But I have ta. I’m just…so tired.” He closed his eyes. “Nothing’s getting better. And it’s so hard, just ta get up anymore. I jus’ wanna sleep.”

He took his glasses off and pressed his hands against his eyes. No more. How was this supposed to help? Ink couldn’t fix him. No one could.

“You don’t have to talk,” said Ink. “Not if you don’t want to. But… It will get better. It has to. Nothing lasts forever.”

“…Death does.”

Rain pounded against the window. The wind howled. Ink climbed onto the bed and sat across from him.

“This won’t. I promise.”

“Ya can’t promise dat.”

“Fresh, you have to believe me. Things will be okay again. P-please don’t give up.”

“Like he did? But… Isn’t he happy now? Isn’t dat what ya told me?”

Ink grasped his wrists, pulling his hands away from his eyes. Tears streaked Ink’s face.

“Please. You have to keep trying.”

“I can’t.”

“We can figure it out together! We’ll do whatever it takes!”

“I…I don’t want to.”

Ink threw his arms around Fresh. “Please. Please don’t leave me.”

“…What am I s’posed ta do? How do I get better?”

Ink trembled, his breaths ragged.

“Do I jus’ have ta wait?” asked Fresh. “Will everything be okay if I wait long enough? What do I _do_?”

“I don’t know!” cried Ink. The tension drained out of Fresh. Ink squeezed him. “I don’t know…”

They were both lost. They were the same. Except, Ink had something Fresh didn’t: hope. And Fresh was stamping it out. Scaring him. Hurting him, like he hurt everyone.

“Why do ya even care about me?”

“What…? What are you talking about? You’re my friend. You’re family.”

“Why?”

Ink paused, and that was answer enough. Fresh pushed him off and put his glasses back on.

“Fresh…”

“Just go.” Ink didn’t move. Fresh turned away. It would hurt Ink less to stay away from him. Ink stood a chance of getting better, but not with Fresh dragging him down. “I wanna be alone now.”

“I want to help you,” said Ink.

“You can’t. No one can.”

“We can if you let us!”

“I’m only hurting ya more.”

“That’s not true. I can’t do this without you.”

“Of course ya can. I’m da one holdin’ ya back.”

“You’re the one getting me through this!”

The shadow of a warning light shuddered in the back of his mind. As he tried to look closer, it faded, leaving a trace of unease behind.

“You’re not hurting me,” said Ink. “You’re helping me.”

Fresh focused on him, searching through him, dissecting his words and actions like he so often had when they were younger, and like then, none of the pieces fit together.

“How?”

“By… Because, without you I’m alone!”

Ink had his mother…but even with Ink, Fresh felt alone. Maybe Ink felt the same. Except around Fresh…? If so… “Maybe it’s better ta be alone.”

“It’s not! We can all get through this if we stick together!”

“You’re all useless. Just leave me alone.” Ink stayed put. Fresh clenched his teeth. “Get out!”

“No!”

Fresh shoved him, almost knocking him off the bed. “I don’t want your help!”

“Fresh—”

He drew closer to Ink, hands in fists. “Leave me alone!”

Ink staggered off the bed to his feet. “Stop it…” Fresh followed, but Ink held a firm stance. “I’m not going to leave!”

Fresh seized the front of Ink’s shirt and forced him toward the door. Ink tried to push him off.

“Stop! Let me go!”

In the hall, Fresh shoved him away. Ink stumbled backwards toward the stairs. Fresh froze. He had to be careful.

“Get outta here! Now! I don’t want you here!”

“I’m not going anywhere!” Fresh stepped closer. Ink stood his ground. “I know what you’re trying to do. But it’s not going to work.”

Fresh’s insides lurched. It had to work. He couldn’t let Ink do this to himself; he wasn’t seeing clearly. Fresh grasped Ink’s shirt, pushed him an inch closer to the stairs, and shouted in his face.

“I hate you! I never wanna see you again!”

Ink’s eyelights quivered, but his face remained resolute. Fresh redoubled his grip and pushed him further, tilting him backwards over the staircase. Ink kept his fists at his sides, gaze fixed on Fresh’s glasses. He knew Fresh wouldn’t drop him.

Thunder crashed, sounding like it was right outside, but only Fresh flinched. If this didn’t work…

“Fine!” He hurled Ink behind him, slamming him into the wall. “If you won’t leave, I will!”

He climbed downstairs as fast as he dared.

“Wha—no,” said Ink, “you can’t go out in this storm!” Fresh reached the bottom and headed straight for the front door. Ink hurried after him. “Stop! It’s not safe!”

Fresh turned the doorknob. The door burst open. Wind and cold rushed in, spraying him with rain. Hands caught him and tugged him back. He struggled to wrench himself free, but Ink grappled with him, ramming him into the wall.

“I won’t let you leave!”

Fresh kicked him and threw him off. “Get away from me!”

He ran for the door, and Ink tackled him. They tumbled to the floor.

“I’m not leaving until Aunt C gets back!”

He pinned Fresh. Error’s face hung over him, twisted in rage and hatred and a desperate need to hurt, to kill—he raised the broken glass and plunged it through Fresh’s eye socket. Pain exploded in his skull; he screamed and fought to throw Error off, and Error punched him, again and again, splitting his face open. The room spun. His hand found Error’s arm and clung to it, but it slipped out of his fingers. Pain shot through his jaw, knocking out a tooth. White lights clouded his vision. Ringing filled his head. The hits kept coming, and he started falling away.

It had stopped. The world tried to steady itself, and distant noises floated over. He curled in on himself. Something wet flowed down his face. The ringing faded into a roar of rain and wind, a rumble of thunder. The pain seeped away. He shivered, gasping for air.

“Fresh…?” came Ink’s voice behind him. Fresh’s body felt weak. “I’m sorry…”

He had to get away. He pushed himself up on shaking arms, rose to his feet, and reeled toward the door. Ink blocked his way.

“You can’t… Please, sit down.”

Fresh stepped back and blundered to the living room. Ink followed.

“Stay away,” said Fresh. He ran for the next room. Ink followed. Fresh bumped against the kitchen counter. “Stay away!”

“Fresh, please…”

He backed into another counter. “Leave me alone!”

Ink stayed in the entrance. Fresh opened a cupboard, snatched up a glass, and threw it at the floor near Ink. It shattered, and Ink jumped.

“GET OUT!” He flung another glass. It smashed against the wall beside Ink. He recoiled.

“S-stop it—”

“STAY THE HELL AWAY FROM ME!”

Ink’s eyes widened. Fresh grabbed two more glasses and threw one after the other. One of them hit Ink’s leg. He stumbled back.

“No—I won’t leave you—”

“You left _him_!” Ink froze. “You left him when he needed you most! You didn’t even try to force your way in! Didn’t Mom tell you what had happened? You knew he loved Geno more than anything, you knew how scared he was of losing him and he thought he would and you just left him alone! Are you an idiot?! Did you ever really care about him?!”

Tears welled in Ink’s eyes. “Of course I did! I—I tried to—”

“How could you think talking would help?! And when it didn’t, you expected him to be okay if you left him alone to figure it out himself?! How stupid are you?! If you had forced his door open, you could’ve saved him! But you left him there to die! It’s your fault he killed himself! IT’S YOUR FAULT MY BROTHER’S DEAD!”

Ink’s eyelights blurred. Fresh hurled more glasses, this time not caring if they hit him. One shattered against Ink’s chest. He doubled up, clutching himself.

“It should’ve been you!” said Fresh. “I wish you had died instead!”

Tears spilled down Ink’s face. Fresh threw one more glass, and Ink ran from the room.

Fresh panted. Numb and lightheaded, he held on to the counter for support. His own words caught up to him.

He would never be able to take them back.

He had only wanted Ink to leave, to give up on him. Their friendship had been hurting them both.

Their “connection.”

Caring about someone who was causing them pain.

Despite everything he had been through, everything he’d thought he understood now, after making the biggest, life-shattering mistake of his life, he hadn’t learned a thing. He kept making the same mistake, again and again.

Hadn’t he figured out that everyone else knew better than him? Why did he keep deciding he knew what was best for everyone, growing so sure of things he had never understood? Why did he keep trying to help while everyone told him he was wrong? It didn’t make sense.

He didn’t understand himself.

All he understood was that he kept hurting everyone he cared about, and everyone left would continue to get hurt simply because they cared back. There would never be a “great future” for something like him. He had already made sure of that. All he could do now was make sure he never hurt anyone again.

The air turned colder, emptier. That would hurt them more than anything. If only no one cared about him. If only they hated him, and his disappearance brought them joy and closure. If only he had never existed in the first place. But he did, and he had to keep existing, and that was the most terrifying thought of all.

Even one more hour like this was one too many. He knew only one way to get through it. He stepped toward his painkillers, and pain pricked his foot. A glass shard stuck out from the bottom of his sock. Fresh pulled the shard out of his foot, and it twinged. The shard’s tip glistened red.

The pain was distracting. Welcoming. He dropped the shard and took another step across the glass-strewn floor, and another. With each piece of glass that cut into his feet, a bit of the ache in his chest loosened and drifted away. He reached the jagged bottom of a glass. He shouldn’t. It didn’t make sense. It would be wrong.

Slowly, he lowered his foot onto the glass. It dug through his sock, into the sole of his foot, piercing his bone. The pain bit harder into his foot, filling his chest with a gentle buzz. The glass sank deeper. A tingle ran up his leg. It felt like he was floating. He leaned against the counter and closed his eyes. The storm beating against the window relaxed him. He soaked himself in the feeling.

Blood trickled down the glass. His insides curdled. What was he doing? He lifted his foot, and the glass rose with it. Shaking, he bent over and pulled the glass out, bit by bit. His foot dripped and throbbed. He tossed the glass aside and set his foot down, trying not to put much weight on it. He felt faint.

The painkillers drew his gaze. He grabbed them and limped out of the kitchen, up the stairs, trailing spots of blood all the way to his room. He sat on his bed, resting his feet on his blanket, and opened his bottle of painkillers. Mouth dry, he poured out a handful of pills and started to swallow them one by one. This would be the last time.

Maybe they would finally understand that talking solved nothing, that he was a lost cause. They had to give up on him eventually. Someday, they wouldn’t be able to take it anymore. Maybe it would be enough for them to break off their connection with him. If they couldn’t… He couldn’t bring himself to imagine what that might mean. But things were different this time. He wasn’t like Geno. They had to see Fresh for what he was and learn to hate him. Then he could finally go to sleep and never wake up.

Ah. He still had some hope left in him after all.

The pain throughout his body started to fade. The warmth swept over him. He kept swallowing pills, hoping they would last longer than usual. His eyes drooped. His mind fogged up, and the softness filled his chest. He lay back. His breaths came slow and shallow. He thought vaguely that perhaps he had taken too many pills.

And then he thought nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings:  
> Substance Abuse  
> Mentions of Suicide  
> Suicidal Ideation  
> Self-harm  
> Violence  
> Blood


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of notices for those who didn’t see:
> 
> 1\. Yes, this was originally going to be the last chapter, but due to unplanned developments and new ideas, the story’s going to take a few more chapters.  
> 2\. I extended The Endless Sleep, which has a ton of new canon content. I also made some revisions to the first three chapters of The Sleepless Wake in light of the new material. If you haven’t yet, I urge you to reread all the story up to this point before continuing. I know it’s kind of a lot, but some of these changes are particularly important.
> 
> That said, enjoy!
> 
> 7/3/18 edit: I'm sorry to say that I probably won't be continuing this story. You can read my Tumblr post about it for details: https://abandonedpie.tumblr.com/post/175496337648/important-update-on-tsw
> 
> Content warnings can be found in the End Notes.

Nausea pressed in on him. His body ached and burned, covered in a film of sweat. A machine beeped. A tube was stuck in his throat. Everything was white. Everything was wrong.

A man’s face appeared above him, blurred through his tears. The man spoke, but Fresh couldn’t focus, couldn’t understand. His face pulled out of sight. Shaking, Fresh tried to remember what had happened. His pills… He had messed up. He could’ve died.

He had almost been free.

Why was he here? Who had found him? Ink had left. His mother shouldn’t have been back for hours. He shouldn’t be here. Why wasn’t he dead? Why did he have to keep suffering? This was it. They would never let him get his hands on more painkillers. He had understood that his pill-sneaking would end once they ran out or he got caught, and he had chosen to indulge rather than delay the inevitable, but he hadn’t been prepared for this. Nothing would ever be right again unless he got more painkillers. There were other drugs that could make this stop, but they weren’t enough. He needed that warmth, that peace.

The man returned and carefully pulled the tube out of Fresh’s mouth. Moments after he stepped away, CQ appeared at Fresh’s other side. The calm on her face wavered, too feeble to cover the haunted look in her eyes. She took his hand in both of hers. She was trembling almost as badly as him. Fresh’s voice forced its way out.

“I’m sorry.”

His mother’s expression cracked. Her eyes misted over, and she lowered her head, squeezing his hand. A chill ran through him.

“Please,” said CQ. “Please let us help you. There’s a better way out… So don’t give up.”

What was she…

Oh.

“I didn’t…mean to,” said Fresh.

“W…what?”

“I m-messed up…”

“Fresh, you… How many did you take?”

Too many. Way too many. Of course this looked intentional. He was supposed to be smarter than that, but at the time, it hadn’t felt like _enough_ pills. How could he have failed to think it through? Somehow, he had reached a whole new level of stupidity.

“I jus’ wanted ta sleep.” He gripped her hand. “Ma… I need more.”

“No. You can’t keep doing this to yourself. I won’t let you.”

“Just a bit… Please. It hurts.”

She looked like she was in just as much pain. “We’re going to help you through this. Just… I need you to hold on a while longer.”

“No… Please… I need ’em. Just a few. Please.”

“I’m sorry. Please hold on. It’s going to be okay.”

“Please, Ma! I can’t… I can’t do it. Please. Please!”

Footsteps drew near. Two people in police uniforms appeared beside CQ, eyes on Fresh.

“Excuse us,” said one of them. As she introduced herself and her partner, the fog in Fresh’s mind grew murkier. What were police doing here?

CQ turned to them without releasing Fresh’s hand. “Can’t this wait?”

“I’m afraid not.”

The second officer spoke to Fresh, their voice as somber and gentle as their eyes.

“We received a report concerning shouts and crashes coming from your house. Could you tell us what happened?”

Fresh closed his eyes. The noise had been loud enough to hear over the storm, bad enough to make someone report it to the police? So they were the ones who had found him. And now he was stuck here without painkillers. Now, he had to admit what he had done. This was good. It should help everyone see what he was, and they needed to hate him before he could sleep.

A thought wormed its way into his mind. He didn’t have to wait for them to grow sick of him. He could speed up the process. He could lie. He could tell them that Ink had attacked him. Even if there was no evidence, even if they learned the truth—what better way to force their hatred than to hurt them, to stab them all in the back and be the worst person he could be?

…As if he hadn’t hurt Ink in one of the worst possible ways already. He didn’t think he had the strength to hurt anyone like that again. He didn’t want to. Wasn’t that why he had to disappear? Wasn’t that why he couldn’t? No matter what he did, they’d end up hurt. The only pain he knew how to stop was his own. But if he endured it a while longer, even if he didn’t set out to hurt them, maybe they could still learn to hate him; then his death would come as less of a blow. They would get hurt along the way, and dragging it out was a terrible thing to do to them as well as himself, but surely they would suffer more if he left them the way Error had, and so soon after him. So long as they cared about Fresh, or felt responsible for him, or remained tied to him for whatever reason, he couldn’t leave. But once they cut those ties, nothing would be holding him back.

To make them hate him, he shouldn’t have to lash out or put on an act. Showing them his true self should be enough.

He opened his eyes. CQ was trying to convince the police to question him later.

“Ink.” They all looked at him. “My…friend. We had a fight. I threw some glasses at him.”

“What was the fight about?” asked the first officer.

“I wanted him ta leave. He wouldn’t, until…I told him…I wished he was dead.”

They paused. CQ squeezed his hand again.

“Why did you want him to leave?” asked the second officer.

Fresh didn’t answer. They glanced at the machine he was hooked up to and reached their own conclusions.

“Is dat all?”

The second officer lowered their head, looking even more subdued.

“For now. Miss?”

They gestured CQ aside. She gave Fresh a long look, released his hand, and followed the police to speak with them a few feet away. Fresh shut his eyes again.

He couldn’t endure this anymore. Not without painkillers. He had never needed anything so desperately in his life. If begging didn’t work, he had to force them. He gazed at the police and his mother, trying to concentrate. Yes. Yes, that would work. He looked around the rest of the room. The man from before was gone.

Fresh reached under his shirt and pulled all the wires off his chest. The machine let out a continuous beep.

“Fresh—?”

He lurched off the bed. The moment his bandaged feet hit the floor, they twinged, his legs buckled, and he toppled. Two pairs of footsteps hurried toward him. CQ cried out.

“What are you doing?” She and the second officer lifted him and sat him back on the bed. “Don’t get up, you need to—”

He snatched the gun from the officer’s holster, threw himself backwards, and rolled off the other side of the bed. He slammed into the floor. They all hurtled around the bed. Hands shaking so badly he almost dropped the gun, Fresh clicked the safety off.

His surroundings faded. His mind shifted out of focus. He was holding a gun. He could blow a hole in his skull. One squeeze, and everything would end. Peace was one second away.

The officer stood two feet from him, holding CQ back with one arm. The first officer stood beside them, pointing her own gun at Fresh.

“Put it down.”

The second officer spoke with single-minded calm.

“You don’t want to do this.”

CQ looked ready to force her way through if Fresh so much as twitched, her eyes unblinking, pleading.

“Please. Please put it down.”

Fresh kept the gun near his chest, pointed away. Every breath felt sharp and painful.

“I just…want some painkillers.”

CQ faltered.

“Okay. We’ll give you something for the pain. Just don’t…”

Not good enough. He had known it wouldn’t be. He had to make sure.

Someone burst into the room. Fresh aimed the gun at his own foot and pulled the trigger.

The bang resounded through his skull as a searing pain tore through his foot. Warm blood poured out from both sides. It soaked his bandages, dyeing them red. Ringing filled him, deadening his mother’s screams. Hands caught hold of him and wrenched the gun from his numb fingers. There was a flurry of movement and shouting around him. His blood pooled, spreading. Splinters of bone stuck out from the exit hole. The room slid out of focus and keeled over.

* * *

 

Part of his mind dragged itself awake. He lay in a hospital room, numb except for an ache in his foot. His eyes felt heavy, drooping closed and opening again. A couple of people sat on a couch nearby. He tried to focus on them. His mother was leaning back, her eyes closed. Asy sat hunched over, face in his hands. Fresh drifted off.

Then his mother was beside him, holding his hand and stroking his skull. She gazed at him, her face drawn, her eyes lost, searching, and swollen.

His gaze wandered. His foot was propped up, in a cast. CQ lifted his hand in both of her own, holding it close to her face as though in prayer. Asy stepped up beside her and touched her shoulder. There were dark circles beneath his eyes. He was frowning, saying something. Fresh drifted.

A nurse stood next to the bed, checking the IV. CQ and Asy were hugging. Fresh let his eyes close.

A shout rang out from far away. The room slowly came into focus. CQ was sitting on the couch, talking on her phone. The nurse and Asy were gone.

Soon, CQ’s hand dropped, holding her phone limply. She didn’t move again until Asy walked in with two water bottles. He handed her one.

“Thank you.”

While she drank, Asy glanced at Fresh, then spoke, voice gentle.

“Hey. You’re looking more awake.”

CQ grew alert herself. She closed the water bottle, set it aside, and went over. For a minute or two, she only held Fresh’s hand and rubbed the back of it with her thumb. She looked like she didn’t know what to say, or like she didn’t want to speak at all. It seemed to take a great effort just to open her mouth.

“I know I said I’d wait until you’re ready, but… That’s not going to work anymore.” Fresh looked away. “…I know you’re tired. I know it’s hard, and it hurts, and it’s so much easier to stop trying. But I need you to stay strong. I need you to let us help you. Even if you think we can’t, and that nothing will ever get better… Please let us try. Let’s all keep trying, together.”

Fresh stayed silent. Asy stepped over.

“You were trying, right? Ink said you called him over to talk. What made you stop?”

Their voices washed over him, their words little more than noise. He closed his eyes. Maybe they would leave him alone. There was a pause, but Asy continued.

“If you think you’re only hurting us, or holding us back, you’re wrong.” Fresh’s eyes opened again. “Helping you isn’t some burden. It’s something we want to do. Sharing your pain won’t make ours worse. Being able to help someone we love will lighten all our loads. It’s a lot easier to carry something heavy with other people’s help, right?”

Their insistence on talking was starting to make some sense. While Fresh didn’t understand why they cared, he understood too well that desire to help. It was the thing that had started this whole mess, wasn’t it? If he had learned his lesson, he would never try to help anyone again. He turned his head away even more. CQ’s hand tightened around his.

“If you don’t believe me, then prove me wrong,” said Asy.

It wasn’t just Fresh who hurt the people he tried to help. Couldn’t they see he wanted to die? The only way to help him was to let him go…and the only way to help them was to make them let go. The only way—

…to help…

No.

No.

_No_.

He was still trying to help them. Still assuming he understood the situation. Still deciding what was best. But their connection to him _was_ hurting them. Breaking it had to make things easier. It was the only solution he could see. If he couldn’t trust his own judgment…

Was there even a way out? Were his only options to live and suffer with his family, or die and hurt them even more? He couldn’t do that to them.

He couldn’t stop trying to help them, but now more than ever, he didn’t know how. He couldn’t trust himself not to screw up again.

“If saying it out loud is too hard, would it be easier to write down?” asked CQ.

Fresh jerked his hand out of her grasp. This was too much. He didn’t want to talk, or think, or breathe.

“Come on,” said Asy. Urgency tinged his voice. “Shout at us if you need to, just let it out. It’ll get easier once you start.”

“No,” said Fresh.

A pause.

“Why not?”

God, couldn’t they just drop this? …No. They couldn’t stop trying to help, either.

But, if he couldn’t trust himself… If everyone else knew better… Shouldn’t he put his trust in them? What else could he do? But for him to talk…

“I can’t.”

“You can,” said Asy. “I know you can. You started talking to Ink, even if it was just a bit. You don’t have to tell us everything at once. Just a little at a time is fine. You can start with anything.”

Fresh clenched his hands. He had seen talking fail again and again, so this wasn’t an assumption, right?

“It doesn’t help.”

“…Maybe it feels that way, because there’s still so much you need to let out. Every bit helps, even if you can’t tell the difference at first. Give it another try.”

“No!”

CQ murmured.

“Asy, maybe we should let him rest some more.”

“Rest won’t make him talk. We can’t let things go on like this, not for one more day. If he’s given up, we’ll make him un-give up!”

He sounded so confident. Fresh didn’t know what to think anymore. Maybe he should stop thinking, let them decide everything and do whatever they asked. That felt a lot more difficult than it sounded.

“I’m tired. Leave me alone…”

“Not until you talk, or agree to talk to a therapist.”

Fresh looked back at him. Asy had his arms crossed.

“I told you, didn’t I? We’ll never give up on you.”

If that was true, then his last hope, his final solution, wouldn’t have worked anyway.

Suddenly even more exhausted, Fresh turned his head away, closed his eyes, and tried to relax enough to tune Asy out and fall asleep.

“So you’re going to try ignoring us? Think you can out-stubborn me, eh? Well, I guess we’ll find out. But I’m pretty confident, because… I have a family who never gave up on me. If it weren’t for them, I wouldn’t be here right now. And if I could be saved…so can you.”

Footsteps moved away, then back. There was a wooden clack beside the bed, and a moment later, again on the other side. Asy continued, sounding close.

“You know why else I’m confident?”

Sensing them on both sides, Fresh turned his face to the ceiling. He felt trapped.

“Because you haven’t given up, not completely.”

Fresh’s face scrunched up. Asy grew quiet.

“Either you still have some kind of hope, or you’re just that incredibly strong and selfless. Whether the pills really were an accident or not… You had a chance, with that gun. But you chose to keep living. Even though…you want to stop. Am I right?”

Fresh’s eye sockets prickled. His breaths shook, and so did his mother’s.

“If you’re holding on to even the smallest hope, you’re strong. And if you’re only holding on for our sake… That takes a lot of strength and kindness.”

“We’re so proud of you,” said CQ.

Fresh squeezed his eyes shut tighter, but tears spilled out anyway.

“You’ve been fighting this for so long,” said Asy. “Holding everything inside you. Don’t you think you’ve earned a rest?”

“You don’t need to fight it alone,” said CQ. “We can help carry some of that weight.”

“We’re right here. Just talk to us.”

Why was he fighting this? Just start talking. Start with the thing at the forefront of his mind: _I want to die_. They already knew this, but let it out. Four simple words. It shouldn’t be hard. Don’t think, just speak. In one, two, three.

But the words didn’t come out.

“Please,” said CQ.

“I can’t.”

“I know you can. Whatever you’re thinking, let it out.”

“I can’t!”

But he wanted to.

“Just try,” said Asy.

“I c-can’t…” What was wrong with him?

“Why not? What’s stopping you?”

Whatever this was, it had been holding him back from the beginning. This feeling… This resolution.

“I just…can’t. You can’t help me.”

“We can’t fix everything,” said CQ. “But we can listen, and help you figure something out from there.”

“No! You… I can’t let you help!”

“Why not?” asked Asy.

“Because…”

“Because what?”

“I have ta be alone!”

Whether it was right or wrong, the only solution or a hopeless wish, he couldn’t shake off this feeling that their connections had to be broken, for his sake as well as theirs.

“No,” said CQ.

“Why do you have to be alone?”

Fresh opened his eyes. They ached. His whole head ached. Asy pressed on.

“Why can’t we be here for you? Why can’t we help? Don’t you want to try everything?”

“No…”

“Do you want us to abandon you?”

Fresh’s chest swelled.

“We’re not going anywhere. You’re stuck with us, and we’re going to help you.”

“No!”

“You can’t make us give up. You’re too important to us.”

“No! You have to— You can’t—”

“Why, Fresh? Why won’t you let us help you? Why—”

“I don’t deserve it!” And it all poured out. He couldn’t stop it any more than he could stop his tears. “I don’t deserve your help; I don’t deserve to be happy! I deserve to be alone, and suffer, just like he did! You can’t be here for me, because I wasn’t there for him—it’s not fair! I’m not allowed to be happy, not when he wasn’t, not after I hurt him so much! So you can’t care about me, because I didn’t, I didn’t care, and I don’t deserve any of you!”

None of it made sense, yet somehow, it was the only thing that felt right.

Gaze on the ceiling, he sobbed. His face felt hot. CQ and Asy were silent.

CQ shifted into view, leaned over, and hugged him.

“You do deserve to be happy. It’s not your fault. Don’t punish yourself for things you couldn’t control. That’s what’s unfair. You don’t deserve that.”

Her hold was more gentle than firm, yet his chest and throat felt so tight that he struggled to breathe.

“I’m a…h-horrible…person.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You’re good, and kind, and brave,” said Asy.

“I-I’ve lied, and hurt you. All of you.”

“You’ve made some mistakes. Some small, some big. But that’s okay. You’re trying, and learning.”

“I s-still…”

“You don’t have to get everything right,” said CQ. “Nobody can be perfect. No matter what you’ve done, or what you do in the future, we’ll always love you.”

Fresh took a moment to get his voice back.

“Why? Why d’ya love me?”

“Fresh… You’re a good person. Not just kind and brave, but smart, and strong, and fun to be around. Even when you’re having trouble, _you_ are still in there. It doesn’t make you any less wonderful.”

She let him go and straightened up. Her eyes shone with tears, but she smiled and kissed his head. He lowered his eye.

“I’m not…”

“You don’t see it?” said Asy. “There’s a lot to love.”

“I…I hate myself…”

CQ wiped at his tears, even as more poured down. Asy grabbed his sweaty hand; Fresh gripped his hand back.

“Then you can change,” said Asy. “You can work on the parts of yourself that you don’t like, and grow into a person you can love and be proud of. We’ll be with you every step of the way.”

“W-what if…I can’t?”

“You can,” said CQ. “We believe in you.”

“B-but…”

She pressed her forehead to his and smiled again.

“If anyone can do it, you can. You’re so smart and strong. Even if you can’t see it right now… You make us so happy.”

“I don’t…understand…”

“Someday, you will. Someday, you’ll look at yourself and be happy, too.”

He sobbed harder.

* * *

 

By the time his doctor came in to brief Fresh about the damage to his foot, CQ and Asy had helped soothe him, though he now felt too tired and unfocused to grasp the full weight of the news. He had blown a hole through the second and third metatarsal bones of his right foot, nearly splitting them in two. According to his doctor, Fresh was incredibly lucky that they hadn’t needed to amputate his foot. Instead, they had been able to restrict removal to the section he had damaged beyond repair. Rather than destroy his foot, he had merely mutilated it. Eventually, he would be able to walk again, but not without difficulty. He would be in the cast for six to eight weeks before switching to a walking boot. He would probably develop chronic pain, which he might need to manage with (nonopioid) medicine.

Then his doctor brought up transfer to the psychiatric ward. With Fresh’s mess of conflicting thoughts and emotions too much to untangle right now, it came down to Geno: he was waiting for Fresh, and Fresh had promised to visit him, but he wouldn’t be able to if he was admitted to the psych ward. So he refused. Of course, he had no choice. On top of his overdose, he had _stolen a gun from a cop_ and _shot himself_ —both facts he kept shutting out all thoughts about. It wasn’t so much the matter of his lawbreaking as it was his mental state. Rather than jail, this meant mandatory psychiatric treatment. Although CQ seemed rather broken up at the idea of her son (both her sons, even) spending who knew how long in the hospital instead of staying home by her side, she thought it was for the best. Fresh, even knowing there was nothing any of them could do, looked to Asy to take his side, but Asy had stayed quiet throughout the discussion and only nodded in agreement with CQ. Resigned, Fresh asked to visit Geno first. His doctor insisted he stay in bed until the next morning, but agreed to let him visit his brother before his transfer.

After Fresh filled up on hospital food for supper (the first thing he had eaten all day), Asy had to leave. He drew out his goodbye with a hug and words of love and encouragement. Soon after that, CQ left to visit Geno and fetch some clothes and other items for Fresh’s stay at the psych ward. With someone checking in every fifteen minutes to make sure Fresh hadn’t tried to hurt himself, he made a halfhearted attempt to sort out his feelings and figure out what came next.

While whatever meds the hospital had him on helped with the pain, they didn’t give him that warm feeling. He wanted his painkillers. He wanted to trust his family, and for them to love him, but all he saw down that road was pain, just like every other road. He wanted to sleep. He didn’t want to wake up. But if he never woke, he would never see Geno, and Geno would never see him.

Maybe, for now, for his brother and their family, he could keep waking up.

* * *

 

CQ opened the door, and the nurse wheeled Fresh into Geno’s room. Geno looked little better than before. At the sight of Fresh in his wheelchair and cast, Geno twitched and started shaking. Fresh forced a smile.

“Hey, Geno…” The nurse brought him up next to the bed, and he grabbed Geno’s hand. “How are ya?”

Fresh barely felt it, but Geno squeezed his hand back. CQ sat on the other side of Geno’s bed. The nurse left. She would be back in half an hour to take Fresh away. He waited, hoping Geno might say something, but he wasn’t surprised when he didn’t. A sick feeling rose inside him.

“…I’m sorry it took me so long ta visit.” He forced himself to look Geno in the eye. Geno’s gaze drifted toward Fresh’s cast. The sick feeling grew, filling him up, making him feel small and flushed and wrong. “I… I’m sorry.” For hurting him. For letting things get so bad. For being a terrible brother, a terrible person. “I’m sorry for everything.”

His chest clenched. He must not cry again. Not in front of Geno.

Geno made a noise, trying to speak. This effort alone sounded painful. Fresh tried to imagine himself in that state, what it must feel like—unable to focus, or move around, or communicate, or do anything while his brother hurt himself more and more. It sounded like a nightmare, but was it worse than his own? He’d never wish any of his pain on anyone, least of all Geno, but if they could switch places, at least Geno would have more of a chance. He was stronger, smarter, and braver than Fresh. He would find a way to that great future that Fresh feared he’d never reach, and Fresh would take on his broken mind and body, suffering from a weak soul until it killed him—

It could kill Geno any day.

Oh. He had been trying so hard to keep that thought out of his head.

The world slid far away. None of this meant anything, for everything would end once Geno died. It didn’t matter if Fresh got better. If he lost Geno, or any of them, everything would fall apart once more. He didn’t want to live to see a world without them in it. He had to die before they did.

“Fresh, look at me—”

He clutched his head, sinking. They, too, would break if he died. They loved him just as badly. They _loved him_.

“Focus on your breathing.”

He was breathing too fast. He couldn’t stop. He felt faint.

“—deep breaths.”

His eyes closed. He tried to slow down.

“Fresh…”

Geno’s voice, though little more than a hoarse whisper, began to steady him. Fingers brushed against his arm. Geno was there. Geno was okay.

Bit by bit, Fresh regained control of his breathing.

Deep breath in. Hold. Release.

He opened his eyes and let go of his head. CQ stood beside him. She rubbed his back. Geno’s arm drooped over the side of the bed, but his hand twitched toward Fresh. He grabbed it again. Geno’s eyelight wavered, fuzzy, not quite focused on anything.

“I’m okay,” said Fresh.

He really had wanted to be able to give Geno good news. Not more lies. Geno deserved better. Better than a brother like him.

His thoughts kept telling him he had to die.

“I’m okay, Ma.”

CQ lingered, then tentatively returned to her seat. Fresh kept his gaze on Geno. He didn’t have much time left. This was his last chance to talk to him for quite a while, so he couldn’t waste it, but it was so hard to speak.

“I’m…gonna get some help. I won’t be able ta visit ya for a while. But next time ya see me… I’ll be better. Okay?”

He shouldn’t have promised that.

Geno’s expression shifted. He was either trying to smile, or trying not to cry. Maybe both. Fresh moved to hug him, but he couldn’t lift himself out of the wheelchair to get close enough. With Geno’s broken bones, though, that was probably for the best. Instead, Fresh laid his arms and head on the edge of the bed. Geno stared at nothing.

He looked so broken. He looked like he might never move again, like the reason he struggled to move or talk or focus was because even that much took a piece out of his soul. He had been through so much. He had lived his conscious life in pain, and now he hardly lived at all. Fresh had no right to complain or feel sorry for himself. Geno had it so much worse, and he didn’t deserve any of it. Now Fresh really wished they could switch places, to give Geno a shot at a better life than he’d ever had, the life Fresh was wasting. It wasn’t like he wanted it anymore. Maybe Geno could find a way to fix it.

God, why did he keep fantasizing about the impossible? They were stuck with the lives they’d been given. No trades, no returns. Fresh had destroyed his, so he could either keep the pieces or throw them away.

There was no point in keeping something so broken. Even if he managed to patch it up, in his clumsy hands, such a fragile thing would only break again.

That reminded him of the time Error had broken the jar Geno gave to him years ago. For once, he hadn’t meant to break anything. Geno had painted that jar just for him as part of an art project with Ink. It had shattered beyond repair, but Error refused to let CQ throw the bigger pieces away. Fresh hadn’t understood why he insisted on keeping something that no longer served a purpose or was worth anything, something he might even cut himself on if mishandled, so CQ had tried to explain sentimental value to Fresh.

Now, he was like that jar. Never particularly valuable to begin with, all he did now was take up space and hurt people, both by cutting those who tried to put him back together and by bringing up memories of the past they couldn’t get back. Still, they couldn’t let him go. He didn’t get that even now.

He had told himself that their love couldn’t be real, but even though he didn’t feel it the way he felt his own love, even though it failed to connect, he had to accept it as a fact. He also had to wonder if it was truly for him. Did he really just not see what they loved about him, blinded by his own self-hatred? Or were they the blind ones? It made so much more sense. They said he was good, kind, brave, smart, strong, fun… They weren’t talking about him. Their love was real, but it was for some false image they had of him. They didn’t love him any more than Error had loved those pieces of painted glass. They loved the past he represented, the part he had played in it. Now that Error was gone, they had latched on to what they had left. Or worse…maybe they loved the old him. Maybe they loved the colorful, smiling boy who always tried to understand and learn and do the right thing, who only failed because he didn’t know better, because the poor thing couldn’t help feeling nothing. Maybe that freak made them happier than the mess he had become. Maybe they thought they could fix him, turn him back to “normal.” But that freak was gone forever. They didn’t know who he was anymore. To be fair, Fresh didn’t know either. He just knew he wasn’t the person they thought he was, or the person they wanted him to be. He wasn’t a person that anyone could love.

He also knew that he couldn’t trust anything he “knew.” That left him with nothing but feelings and no safe way to express them, because he didn’t know if any of them were right.

There was one feeling he would risk expressing, though.

“I love you, Geno.”

Fresh was trying to live for his brother, for his family. Maybe that counted for something. Maybe he wasn’t entirely selfish.

Geno didn’t move, but he teared up. It was then that Fresh decided. Trying to help his family wasn’t his mistake. Wishing for their happiness wasn’t wrong. His love for them, and their love for him, however misguided, were the only things stopping him from acting on his most selfish desire. His real mistake had been thinking he knew how to make them happy, and listening to himself instead of the people who actually knew what happiness was. Not anymore. If they wanted him to get better, then he would try his best to get better, even if it meant accepting things he didn’t deserve. They deserved happiness more than he deserved to be punished. Error had loved them more than he had hated Fresh.

The door opened, and the nurse walked in.

“It’s time to go.”

Fresh sat up, squeezing Geno’s hand.

“No… A bit longer. Please.”

The nurse paused, but then shook her head.

“Fresh…” said Geno.

Not yet. This was too soon. He needed more time. He should have said more while he had the chance.

CQ stood up, and the nurse grabbed Fresh’s wheelchair. Geno twitched, trying to talk.

“I…”

The nurse pulled Fresh away. His hand slipped out of Geno’s.

“I need to go with him,” CQ told Geno. “I’ll be back soon.”

She followed them to the door. Still, Geno kept trying.

“I… I…”

Fresh craned his neck to keep his brother in sight until the door closed behind them. How long would it be before they saw each other again? Anything could happen to Geno while he was gone. Fresh wouldn’t be there for him. If he didn’t last until Fresh was released, this would have been the last time they saw each other.

Fresh tried to steady his breathing. He had to

(die)

get better fast.

For Geno.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings:  
> Self-harm  
> Mutilation  
> Gun Violence  
> Blood  
> Suicidal Ideation  
> Drug Cravings
> 
> \---
> 
> My beta reader posed a question...  
> How is Ink doing?  
> I wonder~


End file.
